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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



or 



MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 



NEW EDITION 



ILLUSTRATED WITH STEEL ENOBAVlJfOS. 



boston: 

phillips, sampsoin, and company 

1858. 



PREFACE. 

Op the genius of the gifted authoress of thia 
volume, it is deemed entirely superfluous to speaiv ; 
its proud eminence having so long and so universally 
been conceded by all lovers of poetry. Fame is the 
recompense, not of the living, but of the dead — not 
always do they reap and gather in the harvest, who 
sow the seed — the flame of its altar is too often 
kindled from the ashes of the great. Hazlitt beauti- 
fully represents it as " the sound which the stream 
of high thoughts, carried down to future ages, makes 
as it flows — deep, distant, murmuring evermore like 
the waiers of the mighty ocean." Though why should 
we insinuate its want of acknowledgment to her, 
when she so eloquently asks, " What is fame to a 
heart yearning for affection, and finding it not? Is 
it not as a triumphal crown to the brow of one 
parched with fever, and asking for one fresh, healthful 
draught — the * cup of cold water 1 ' " 

No reputation can be called such, that will not 
endure Hazlitt's test ; but when tried by his measure, 
and not found wanting, this is fame indeed. When 
hus favored, may it not begin and continue, coin 



(4) 

cident with the popularity whicn is so often mistaken 
for itself? May not the ^spirit of a man transfuse its 
influence into the spirits of other men, without the 
mythological transmigration which, according to this 
theory, death implies ; and the force of that influence 
be felt, ere yet the "swift decay of him" that so 
works for the world, shall quite release him from his 
toils ? Alas ! it is the common province of the one, 
to enjoy " the price of the bitter tears of the other." 
But it is enjoyed, and that is fame. 

The best confirmation, melancholy though it be, of 
the truth of these remarks, is furnished by the accom- 
plished and amiable writer, whose beautiful illustration 
of her own career — not to call it a prediction of her 
own destiny — we have borrowed, as better expressive 
of our views under consideration than anything we 
could say ourselves, did we write a volume. The 
mournful fancy sings, 

" When the strairt is sung, 

Till a tho isand nearts are stirred, 
What life-drDps, iiom the minstrel wrung, 

Have gush'd with every word ? 

" None ! none ! his treasures live like thine, 

He strives and dies like thee, — 
Thou that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine 

O wrestler with the sea ! " 



(5) 

The popularity of these poems has been perhaps 
entirely unexampled in the history of literature of this 
description. The extraordinary newspaper popularity 
of her later writings, is itself an indication of the 
fact. 

But why need we occupy time and space to prove 
that which has everywhere been conceded ? Who 
will deny that Mrs. Hemans has enjoyed, in her own 
life-time, a true fame, — even the truest, dearest, best 
of all its spices, — though only as the dim beginning 
of the brightness which awaits her name? Her suc- 
cess was complete, and the lovers of the muse every- 
where confessed it. She addressed herself, not to 
passion, or fashion, or the public, or any particular 
class of the community or country in which she lived, 
but with truth's transparent and glowing passport in 
her hand she suncr; and wherever there was civiliza- 
tion, there did she find grateful and responsive hearts. 

That she enjoyed this reputation while on earth, 
and that the seal of immortality awaits her name, is 
not strange ; for her aim was God-like : it was none 
other than to be the worthy interpreter of worthy 
truth, deeply concerning the happiness of her race; 
and the vital spirit of virtue she invoked, inspired hei 
equal to the task. 
!• 



(6) 

This is her praise ; and it is praise enough. She 
did not seem to feel the high dignity of her profession, 
nor forget to observe it. It was not her misfort me to 
make a vain display of genius faithless to its trust; 
but rather did she cultivate self as the means, than 
the end. 

This was her praise ; and the greater for its rarity. 
Apparently under the conviction that there was too 
much extravagant excitement abroad, she chose to 
take the reasonable medium, which her native sense 
and sensibility alike approved, in painting faithfully 
the humanity around us as it is, rather than weaving a 
dreamy web of things that should be. 

Calmness was her aim, that she might not only feel, 
but feel rightly ; that the mind may the more faith- 
fully mirror the impressions which meet it in a state of 
composure, and thereby that it may learn to be true. 

It is this calmness which so eminently characterizes 
the poetry of Mrs. Hemans, and which tended so 
much to establish her reputation — written as it was, 
for the most part, in the midst of a stormy time in the 
revolutionary history of the civilized world. It was a 
self-possession which never forsook her in the heat of 
her highest enthusiasm of joy or sorrow. 

Mrs. Hemans did not attempt everything, though 
the ambition of most authors would have been content 



with the range she occupied. Her only limits were 
nature, principle, and truth. With these, combined 
with her song-inspiration, who could fail of conviction 
and admiration! 

Of the perfect transparency and lofty bearing of the 
poetry of Mrs. Hemans, much might be said ; but 
from the sketch already presented, the fact is deemed 
inferrable. In these attributes she has not been sur- 
passed, if equalled, by any writer of the loftiest school. 
None could be more alive than she was to the 
respectability (so to speak) of all that reason discovers 
and religion reveals of the spiritual meanings of the 
universe around us, in the least as well as the grandest 
of its parts. 

In introducing this volume to the public, the writer 
would say, that the space allotted forbids a more 
elaborate notice of the genius and fame of her who 
Bang, 

** Thus let my memory be with you, my friends ' 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone- 
As of a bird from a chain unbound, 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — 

So let it be ! " 

He would only add, that he feels that in getting out 



(8) 

this volume, his office is as one who throws " watei 
upon ancient paintings, reviving their forms and 
colors, like any sound or circumstance reviving 
images of the past" 



CONTENTS. 

The Restoration ol the Works of Art to Italy, 19 

Arabella Stuart, 3d 

Cathedral Hymn, 48 

Edith ; a Tale of the Woods, 53 

The Widow of Crescentius, 62 

Dartmoor. A Pnze Poem, 82 

Properzia Rossi, 95 

Elysium, 100 

The Death of Conradin, 104 

The King of Arragon's Lament for his Brother, 110 

The Homes of England, 113 

The Land of Dreams, 1 15 

The Childe's Destiny, 117 

Cceur de Lion at the Bier of his Father, 120 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, 123 

The Voice of Spring, 125 

Roman Girl's Song, 128 

Dirge, 130 

The Coronation of Inez de Castro, 132 

To a Remembered Picture, 135 

Joan of Arc, in Rheims, = ••' 137 

The Crusader's War Song, 140 

The Vaudois' Wife, I4a 

The Switzer's Wife, 145 



(10) 

PXOM. 

Washington's Statue, 150 

The Palm Tree, 151 

The Traveller's Evening Song, 153 

Tlie Songs of our Fathers, 155 

The American Forest Girl, 1 57 

Casabianca, 160 

Greek Funeral Chant, or Myriologue, 162 

Woman on the Field of Battle, 166 

The Festal Hour, 169 

The Last Song of Sappho, 173 

Ivan the Czar, 175 

The Dying Improvisatoire, 178 

The Hour of Prayer, 180 

The Hebrew Mother, 181 

The Graves of a Household, 184 

Tasso and his Sister, 186 

England's Dead, 188 

The Traveller at the Source of the Nile, 191 

Hymn of the Traveller's Household on his Return, 193 

The Parting of Summer, 195 

Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in Times of Perse- 
cution, , 197 

The Boon of Memory, 199 

Kindred Hearts, 201 

The Parthenon, 203 

Sister ! since I Met Thee Last, 206 

The Two Voices, , 207 

The Image in Lava, ,209 

The Summer s Call, .211 



(11) 

P«aa 

He never Smiled Again, 213 

Bernardo del Carpio, 214 

The Hour of Death, 213 

The Voice of Home to the Prodigal, 220 

Let her Depart, 222 

Song of Emigration, 223 

The Trumpet, 225 

Despondency and Aspiration, 226 

To the Memory of the Dead, 232 

Mozart's Requiem, - 234 

The Funeral Genius ; an Ancient Statue, 236 

The Graves of Martyrs, 238 

The Ivy Song, '. . .240 

The Nightingale's Death Song 242 

The Revellers, 244 

Song of a Guardian Spirit, 246 

Swiss Song, on the Anniversary of an Ancient Battle, . . .248 

The Diver, 250 

Leave Me not Yet, 252 

The Wreck, 253 

O Ye Voices Gone, 255 

The Soldier's Death-Bed, 256 

The Bird at Sea, c. . .257 

The Deserted House, 259 

Corinna at the Capitol, 261 

The Voice of the Wind, 263 

The Death Day of Korner, 265 

The Last Wish, 267 

The Palmer, 269 



(12) 

Paoi 

The Suliote Mother, 271 

The Lost Pleiad, 273 

Grertrude ; or, Fidelity till Death,. 274 

Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin, 27b 

The Adopted Child, 278 

The Two Monuments, 280 

Passing Away, 282 

The Better Land, 284 

Evening Song of the Weary, 285 

The Storm-Painter in his Dungeon, 286 

The Song of Night, 288 

Parting Words, 290 

if Thou hast crush'd a Flower, 291 

Let us Depart, 293 

The Sunbeam, 295 

To my own Portrait, 296 

Ancient Battle Song, 298 

A Parting Song, 299 

The Bride of the GreeK Isle, 300 

The Bended Bow, 302 

Woman and Fame, 303 

The Penitent's Return, 305 

Dirge of a Child, 307 

The Silent Multitude, 308 

The Stranger in Louisiana, 310 

The Messenger Bird, 311 

Bring Flowers, 313 

The Water Lily, 314 

Angel Visits, 3ig 



^1 



(13) 

Pa as 

The Rock beside the Sea, 318 

The Two Homes, 319 

Sadness and Mirth, 321 

The Bride's Farewell, 323 

The Sound of the Sea, 324 

A Prayer of Affection, 325 

The Antique Sepulchre, 327 

The Cambrian in America, 329 

No More, 330 

Last Rites, 332 

The Farewell to the Dead, 333 

A Thought of the Future, 335 

Troubadour Song, 337 

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School, 338 

The Cross of the South, 340 

The Charmed Picture, 342 

The Aged Indian, 343 

The Victor, 345 

The Dial of Flowers, 347 

The Treasures of the Deep, 348 

Triumphant Music, 350 

Night Hymn at Sea, 352 

Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial^ 353 

1 . The Sacred Harp, tb. 

2. To a Family Bible, ib 

3. Repose of a Holy Family, * 354 

4. Picture of the Infant Christ with Flo-w«rJ, ........ 355 

5. On a Remembered Picture of Christy ib. 

6. The Children whom Jesus Blest, , • , 356 



(14) 

Pagb. 

7. Mountain Sanctuaries, 356 

8. The Lilies of the Field, 357 

9. The Birds of the Air, » 358 

10. The Raising of the Widow's Son, ib 

11 The Olive Tree, 359 

12. The Darkness of the Crucifixion, .360 

13. Places of Worship, ib 

14. Old Church in an English Park, 361 

15. A Church in North Wales, 362 

16. Louise Schepler, ib. 

17. To the Same, 363 

B.ECORDS OF THE SpRINO OF 1834, 364 

1. A Vernal Thought, ib 

2. To the Sky, ib. 

3- On Records of Immature Genius, 365 

4. On Watching the Flight of a Sky Lark, 366 

5. A Thought of the Sea, ib. 

6. Distant Sound of the Sea at Evening, , 367 

7. The River Clwyd in North Wales, 368 

8. Orchard Blossoms, ib. 

9. To a Distant Scene, 360 

10 A Remembrance of Grasmere, 370 

11. Thoughts connected with Trees, ii. 

12 The Same, . 371 

13 On Reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood, , 372 

14. A Thought at Sunset, ib. 

15. Images of Patriarchal Life, 373 

16. Attraction of the East, 374 

17. To an Aged Friend, ib 



(15) 

Paor 

18. Foliage, 375 

19. A Prayer, 376 

20. Prayer Continued, ib. 

21. Memorial of a Conversation, 377 

Records of the Autumn of 1834, 378 

1. The Return to Poetry, ib, 

2. To Silvio Pellico, on Reading his " Prigione, 379 

3. To the Same, Released ib. 

4. On a Scene in the Dargle, 380 

5. On Reading Coleridge's Epitaph, ^381 

6. On the Datura Arborea, ib. 

7. Design and Performance, , 382 

8. Hope of Future Communion with Nature, 383 

9. Dreams of th 1)%^ a, , .,, , ib. 

10. Poetry of the Psalms, 384 

I'houghts During Sickness, 385 

1. Intellectual Powers, ib. 

2. Sickness like Night, 386 

3. On Retzsch's Design of the Angel of Death, ib. 

4. Remembrance of Nature, 387 

5. Flight of the Spirit, 388 

6. Flowers, 2*6 

7. Recovery, 389 

Sabbath Sonnet, .390 

A Poet's Dying Hymn, 391 



^19) 



THE 

RESTORATION 

OF THE 

WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 

Land of departed fame ! whose classic plains 
Have proudly echo'd to immortal strains ; 
Whose hallow 'd soil hath given the great and 

brave, 
Day stars of life, a birth, place, and a grave ; 
Home of the Arts ! where glory's faded smile, 
Sheds ling'ring light o'er many a mould'ring pile ; 
Proud wreck of vanish'd power, of splendor fled. 
Majestic temple of the mighty dead ! 
Whose grandeur yet contending with decay, 
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day ; 
Though dimm'd thy brightness, riveted thy chain, 
Yet, fallen Italy ! rejoice again ! 
Lost, lovely realm ! once more 'tis thine to gaze 
On the rich relics of sublimer days. 

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, 
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades ; 
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom 
Where the wild ivy shadows Vimil's tomb ; 
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave, 
Swell'd the deep echoes of the fountain's cave 



(20J 

Or thrill'd the soul in Tasso's numbers high, 
Those magic strains of love and chivalry . 
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove. 
Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove ; 
Oh ! rouse once more the daring soul of song, 
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, 
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered 
Hallow'd by time, by absence more endear'd. 

And breathe to Those the strain, whose 

warrior-might 
Each danger stemm'd, prevaiP'd in every fight , 
Souls of unyield'ng power, to storms inured, 
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. , 

Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind 
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind : 
Whose banners track'd the vanquish'd Eagle's 

flight 
O'er many a plain, and dark siera's height ; 
Who bade once more the wild, heroic lay, 
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day ; 
Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and 

snow. 
An Alpine huntsman chased the fear-struck foe : 
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales. 
Rich Languedoc ! that fan thy glowing vales, 
And 'midst those scenes renew'd th' achieve* 

ments high 
Bequeath'd to fame by England's ancestry : 

Yet, when the storm seem'd hush'd, the 
conflict past. 
One strife remain'd — the mightiest and the last ! 



(21) 

Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour 
Untamed Ambition summon'd all his power ; 
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, wer6 

there, 
And the stern might of resolute Despair. 
Isle of the free ! 'twas then thy champions stood. 
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood ; 
Sunbeam of battle ! then thy spirit shone, 
Glow'd in each breast, and sunk with life alone. 

Oh hearts devoted ! whose illustrious doom 
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb. 
Ye, firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried 
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified ; 
Shrined, not entomb'd, ye rest in sacred earth, 
Hallow'd by deeds of more than mortal worth. 
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust, 
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust. 
Yours, on the scene where valor's race was run, 
A prouder sepulchre — the field ye Avon ! 
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name. 
Shall live a watchword blended with your fame ; 
And well may flowers suffice those graves to 

crown 
That ask no urn to blazon their renown ! 
There shall the bard in future ages tread. 
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er ilio 

dead ; 
Revere each tree whose shel'tring branches wave 
O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave ; 
Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, Piud 

hear 
In every breeze some name to glory dear ; 



(22) 

And as the shades of twilight close around, 
With martial pageants people all the ground. 
Thitlier unborn descendants of the slain 
Shall throng as pilgrims to the holy fane, 
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell 
Where fought their fathers, and prevail 'd, and fell, 
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, 
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below I 
And many an age shall see the brave repair, 
To learn the Hero's bright devotion there. 

And well, Ausonia ! may that field of fame, 
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. 
Land of the lyre ! 'twas there th' avenging sword, 
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored ; 
Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that 

throw 
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe. 
And bid the stranger for awhile forget 
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. 

Yes, fair creations ! to perfection wrought, 
Embodied visions of ascending thought ! 
Forms of sublimity ! by Genius traced 
In tints that vindicate adoring taste ; 
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown, 
Li ve in the spheres encircling glory's throne ; 
Models of art, to deathless fame consign'd, 
Stamp'd with the high-born majesty of mind ; 
Yes, matchless works ! your presence shall restore 
One beam of splendor to your native shore, 
And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, 
As the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb 



(23) 

Oh! ne'er, in other climes, though many an 
eye 
Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy ; 
Ne'er was it yours to bid the soul expand 
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, 
As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan 
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone ; 
Where 'midst the ruined shrines of many a vale, 
E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale, 
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends. 
But its proud name with song eternal blends ! 

Yes ! in those scenes where every ancient 

stream 
Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme ; 
Where every marble deeds of fame records, 
Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords ; 
And the deep tones of inspiration swell 
From each wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell ; 
Where heroes slumber on their battle plains, 
'Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes, 
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot. 
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot ; 
There was your home, and there your power 

imprest. 
With tenfold awe, the pilgrims glowing breast ; 
And, as the wind's deep thrills and mystic sighi 
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies, 
Thus at your influence, starting from repose, 
Thought, Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. 

Fair Florence ! queen of Arno's lovely vale I 
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, 



(24) 

And sternly smiled in retribution's hour, 
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power 
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead 
Mourn'd o'er the domes they rear'd in ages fled 
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced, 
Temples of genius, palaces of taste, 
Too long, with sad and desolated mien, 
Reveal'd where Conquest's lawless track had 

been ; 
Reft of each form with brighter light imbued, 
Lonely they frown'd, a desert solitude. 

Florence ! th' Oppressor's noon of pride is o'er. 
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more ! 

As one, who, starting at the dawn of day 
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay, 
With transport heighten'd by those ills of night, 
Hails the rich glories of expanding light ; 
E'en thus, awak'ning from thy dream of woe, 
While heaven's own hues in radiance round 

thee glow. 
With warmer ecstacy 'tis thine to trace 
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace ; 
More bright, more prized, more precious, since 

deplored. 
As loved, lost relics, ne'er to be restored. 
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed 
By fond aifection bending o'er the dead. 

Athens of Italy ! once more are thine 
Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine, 
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam. 
Warm o'er thy shrine. the tints of Glory stream, 



(25) 

And forms august as natives of the sky, 
Rise round each fane in fauhless majesty, 
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand, 
They seem creations of no mortal hand. 

Ye, at whose voice fair art, with eagle glaiK e^ 
Burst in full splendor from her deathlike trance ; 
Whose rallying call bade slumb'ring nations wake. 
And daring intellect his bondage break ; 
Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose. 
And snatch 'd the Tuscan lyre from long repose ^ 
And bade its pealing energies resound. 
With power electric, through the realms around ; 
Oh ! high in thought, magnificent in soul ! 
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control ; 
Cosmo, Lorenzo ! view your reign once more. 
The shrine where nations mingle to adore ! 
Again th' Enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, 
Shall hail the mighty of departed days : 
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind 
Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined ; 
Still with ascendant power the world to awe, 
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw ; 
To breathe some spell of holiness around, 
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground. 
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought, 
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. 

There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind ! 
Love's radiant goddess, idol of mankind ! 
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, 
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. 
3 



(26) 

Oh ! who can tell what beams of heavenly 

light, 
Flash'd o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight, 
How many a glimpse, reveal 'd to him alone, 
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own ; 
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless, 
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness ! 

Young Genius there, while dwells his kind- 
ling eye 
On forms, instinct with bright divinity. 
While new-born powers, dilating in his heart. 
Embrace the full magnificence of Art ; 
From scenes, by Raphael's gifted hand array'd, 
From dreams of heaven, by Angela portray'd ; 
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime, 
Seal'd with perfection, " sanctified by time ; " 
Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel 
His spirit burn with emulative zeal. 
Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise^ 
Imbued at once with nobler energies ; 
O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinions soar, 
And worlds of visionary grace explore. 
Till his bold hand give glory's day-dream birtht 
And with new wonders charm admiring earth. 

Yenice, exult ! and o'er thy moonlight seas, 
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze ! 
What though long fled those years of martia 

fame. 
That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name ; 
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play, 
And the wild waves another Q,ueen obey ; 



(27) 

Though quench'd the spirit of thine ancient race, 
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace ; 
Yet still shall Art her splendors round thee cast, 
And gild the wreck of years for ever past. 
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes, 
Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies. 
And scenes that glow in coloring's richest bloom, 
With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume. 
From the rich dome again th' unrivall'd steed 
Starts to existence, rushes into speed, 
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, 
Panting with ardor, vivified with flame. 

Proud Racers of the Sun ! to fancy's thought 
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught. 
No mortal birth ye seem — but form'd to bear 
Heaven's car of triumph through the realms 

of air : 
To range uncurb'd the pathless fields of space, 
The winds your rivals in the glorious race ; 
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet. 
Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet ; 
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray, 
The flame that wakes creations into day. 
Creatures of fire and ether ! wing'd with light 
To track the regions of the Infinite ! 
From purer elements whose life was drawn, 
Sprung from the sunbeam, off'spring of the 

dawn. 
What years on years, in silence gliding by, 
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry ! 
Moulded by Art to dignify, alone. 
Her own bright deity's resplendent throne, 



(28) 

Since first hei skill their fiery grace bestow'd, 
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode, 
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem 
An echo's voice — the music of a dream, 
Whose records feebly from oblivion save 
A few bright traces of the wise and brave ^ 
How many a state, whose pillar'd strength 

sublime, 
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time, 
Towering o'er earth majestic and alone, 
Portress of power — has flourish'd and is gone ! 
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne, 
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn, 
They that of powers and kingdoms lost and 

won. 
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun, 
Consummate still in every grace remain. 
As o'er their heads had ages roll'd in vain ! 
Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight, 
O'er countless monuments of earthly might ! 
While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain, 
Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign, 
'Midst the blue deep, who rear'd her island* 

throne. 
And called th' infinitude of waves her own • 
Venice, the proud, the Regent of the sea. 
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free ! 

And thou, whose Eagle's towering plum 
unfurl 'd. 
Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world. 
Eternal city ! romid whose Curule throne, 
The lords of nations knelt in ages flown • 






.-_J, 



(29) 

Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time 
Immortal records of their glorious prime ; 
When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among, 
Swell'd the high raptures of heroic song ; 
Fair, fallen Empress ! raise thy languid head 
From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead, 
And once again, with fond delight survey. 
The proud memorials of thy noblest day. 

Lo ! where thy sons, oh Rome ! a godlike train. 
In imaged majesty return again ! 
Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien 

august 
O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. 
Those forms, those features, huninous with soul, 
Still o'er thy children seem to claim control ; 
With awful grace aiTest the pilgrim's glance, 
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance. 
And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes, 
From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise. 

Souls of the lofty ! whose undying names. 

Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims ; 

Oh ! with your images could fate restore 

Your own high spirit to your sons once more ; 

Patriots and heroes ! could those flames return 

That bade your hearts with freedom's ardors 

burn. 

Then from the sacred ashes of the first. 

Might a new Rome in phoenix grandeur burst ! 

With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom, 

With one loud call wake empire from the tomb 
3# 



( 30 ) 

Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, 
Lift her dread aegis with majestic frown, 
Unchain her eagle's wing, and guide his flight 
To bathe his plumage in the fount of light. 

Vain dream ! degraded Rome ! thy noon is o'er. 
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. 
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, 
Who fix'd on thee the world's adoring gaze ; 
Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was higli, 
More blest, ere darkness quench'd its beam, 
to die ! 

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers 
Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, 
Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way, 
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay ! 
Oh ! what can realms, in fame's full zenith; 

boast. 
To match the relics of thy splendor lost ! 
By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill, 
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still. 
For there has Art survived an empire's doom, 
And rear'd her throne o'er Latium's trophied 

tomb ; 
She from the dust recalls the brave and free, 
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee ! 

Oh ! ne'er again may War, with lightning 
stroke. 
Rend its last honors from the shatter'd oak ! 
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, 
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline ' 



(31) 

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful 

fire, 
[n all the grandeiu* of celestial ire, 
Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer's form 
Sheds radiance round, with more than Being 

warm ! 
Oh ! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame, 
A living temple of ethereal flame ? 

Lord of the daystar ! how may words portray 
Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray ? 
Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could 

trace. 
Of regal dignity and heavenly grace ; 
Each purer effluence of the fair and bright. 
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight j 
Each bold idea, borrow 'd from the sky, 
To vest th' embodied form of Deity ; 
All, all in thee ennobled and refined, 
Breathe and enchant, transcendent] y combined ! 
Son of Elysium ! years and ages gone 
Have bow'd in speechless homage at thy thronej 
And days unborn, and nations yet to be. 
Shall gaze, absorb'd in ecstacy, on thee ! 

And thou, triumphant wreck, e'en yet sublime 
Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and Time ; 
Hail to that scene again, where genius caught 
From thee its fervors of diviner thought ! 
Where He, th' inspired One, whose gigantic mind 
Lived in some sphere, to him alone assign 'd ; 
Who from the past, the futiue, and th' uuseen, 
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien 



(33) 

Unrivall'd Angelo on thee would gaze, 
Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze ! 
And who bat he, that Prince of Art, might dare 
Thy sovereign greatness view without despair ? 
Emblem of Rome ! from power's meridian hurPd, 
Yet claiming still the homage of the world. 

What hadst thou been, ere barb'rous hands 

defaced 
The work of wonder, idolized by taste ? 
Oh ! worthy still of some divine abode. 
Mould of a Conqueror ! ruin of a God ! 
Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless 

oeam 
From each bright fragment pours its vital 

stream, 
'Tis thine, by fate unconquer'd to dispense 
From every part some ray of excellence ! 
E'en yet, inform'd with essence from on high, 
Thine is no trace of frail mortality ! 
Within that frame a purer being glows. 
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows ; 
FilPd with immortal life each muscle swells, 
In every line supernal grandeur dwells. 

Consummate work ! the noblest and the last 
Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past : 
Nurse of the mighty, she, while ling'ring still, 
Her mantle flow'd o'er many a classic hill, 
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, 
A hero's image to the world bequeathed ; 
Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray 
Of high-soul'd Genius, foster'd by her sway, 



(33) 

And bade thee leach to ages yet miborn, 
What lofty dreams were hers — who never shali 
return. 

And mark yon group, tranxsfix'd with many 
a throe, 
Seal'd with the image of eternal woe : 
With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest, 
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize the breast, 
And the stern combat picture to mankind 
Of suffering nature and endiuing mind. 
Oh, mighty conflict ! though his pains intense 
Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense ; 
Though fix'd on him, his children's suppliant eyes 
Implore the aid avenging fate denies ; 
Though with the giant snake in fruitless strife, 
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, 
And in each limb existence writhes, enroll'd, 
'Midst the dread circles of the venom'd fold ; 
Yet the strong spirit lives — and not a cry 
Shall own the might of Nature's agony ! 
That furrow'd brow unconquer'd soul reveals, 
That patient eye to angry heaven appeals. 
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath, 
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death. 

Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art ! 
W^itli speechless horror to congeal the heart, 
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every 

vein, 
♦^old thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain ; 
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power 
May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour. 



(34) 

Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze 
On scenes where Painting all her skill displays : 
Landscapes, by coloring dress'd in richer dyes, 
More meilow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies, 
Of dreams of bliss, to dying martyrs given. 
Descending seraphs, robed in beams of heaven. 

Oh ! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, 
Its depths of shadow, and its blaze of light ; 
Ye, whose bold thought disdaining every bound, 
Explored the worlds above, below, around, 
Children of Italy ! who stand alone 
And unapproach'd, 'midst regions all your own ; 
What scenes, what beings bless'd yom' favor'd 

sight, 
Severely grand, unutterably bright ! 
Triumphant spirits ! your exulting eye 
Could meet the noontide of eternity, 
And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontrolPd, 
On all that Fancy trembles to behold. 

Bright on your view such forms their splendoi 

shed, 
As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled : 
Forms that to trace no hand but yours might 

dare, 
Darkl y sublime or exquisitely fair ; 
These o'er the walls your magic skill array'd, 
Glow in rich smishine, gleam through melting 

shade, 
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower. 
And breathe and move, the records of your 

power. 



(35) 

Inspired of Heaven ! what heightened power ye 

cast 
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past ! 
Round many a marble fane and classic dome, 
Asserting still the majesty of Rome ; 
Round many a work that bids the world believe 
What Grecian Art could image and achieve ; 
Again, creative minds, your visions throw 
Life's chasten'd warmth, and Beauty's mellowest 

glow, 
And when the Morn's bright beams and mant- 
ling dyes. 
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies, 
Or evening suns illume, with pm-ple smile, 
The Parian altar, and the pillar 'd aisle, 
Then, as the full, or soften'd radiance falls, 
On angel-groups that hover o'er the walls, 
Well may those Temples, where your hand has 

shed 
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead, 
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair. 
That nought of earth should find admittance 

there. 
Some sphere where beings, to mankind un- 
known, 
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone ! 

Hence, ye vain fictions ! fancy's erring theme 
Gods of illusion ! phantoms of a dream ! 
Frail, powerless idols of departed time. 
Fables of song, delusive, though sublime ! 
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign'd 
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind ! 



\zz 



(3(5) 

From brighter streams her vast ideas flowed, 

With pm-er fire her ardent spirit glow'd. 

To her 'twas given in fancy to explore 

The land of miracles, the holiest shore ; 

That realm where first the light of life was sent; 

The loved, the pimish'd of th' Omnipotent ! 

O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would 

stray, 
Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely wa}'' ; 
By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's deep, 
Chain'd in dead silence and unbroken sleep ; 
Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell. 
Where pass'd th' Eternal, where his anger fell ! 
Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal'd. 
Swell'd in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal'd, 
Or heard by prophets in some palmy vale, 
Breathed "still small " whispers on the midnight 

gale. 
There dwelt her spirit — there her hand portray 'd, 
'Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade. 
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught, 
Or patriarch-seers absorb 'd in sacred thought, 
Bards, in high converse with the world of res^, 
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. 
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, 
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save ; 
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled, 
And soul retiun'd to animate the dead ; 
Whcm the waves own'd — and sunk beneath 

his eye, 
Awed by one accent of Divinity ; 
To Him she gave her meditative hours, 
Hallo w'd her thoughts, and sanctified her powers 



(37) 

O'er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw, 
As all around the Godhead's presence knew, 
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien 
m beaming mercy, majesty serene. 

Oh ! mark where Raphael's pure and perfect 
line 
Portrays that form ineffably divine ! 
Where with transcendent skill his hand has shed 
Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head ; 
Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued 
With all the fullness of beautitude, 
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight 
Sinks overpower'd by that excess of light ! 

Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, 
By truth inspired to elevate the heart, 
To bid the soul exultingly possess, 
Of all her powers, a heighten'd consciousness ; 
And strong in hope, anticipate the day. 
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray ; 
To realize, in some unclouded sphere. 
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here ! 
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky. 
Faint effluence of " the Day-spring fiom on 
high ! " 



(38) 

ARABELLA STUART. 

I. 

'TwAs b It a dream ! — I saw the stag leap free, 
Under the boughs where early birds were 

singing, 
I stood, o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree. 

And heard, it seem'd, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far through a royal forest ; then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert ; and the smooth turf shook, 
And lilies quiver 'd by the glade's lone brook, 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career 
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear. 
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all pass'd by, 
Save one — I met the smile of one clear eye, 
Flashing out joy to mine. — Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour ! a soft wind blew the clustering hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train, 
And fling, methought, thy hunting-spear away! 
And, lightly graceful in thy green array. 
Bound to my side ; and we, that met and parted 

Ever in dread of some dark watchful power, 
Won back to childhood's trust, and, fearless- 
hearted. 

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that 
hour, 



( 39 } 

E'en like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and 'midst the floating breaih 
Of hidden forest flowers. 

n. 

'Tis past ! — I wake, 
A captive, ai^id alone, and far from thee, 
My love and friend ! Yet, fostering for tliy sake, 

A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
And feeling still my woman's spirit strong 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong, 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know om' love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above, 
By its undying fervor ; and prevail. 
Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale. 
Through hearts now cold ; and, raising its bright 

face, 
With a free gush of sunny tears erase 
The characters of anguish ; in this trust, 
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
That I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm, 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, 
Makmg past sorrow, by commimion, swt et. 

And thou too art in bonds? — yet droop thou noL, 
Oh, my beloved! — there is one hopeless lot. 
But one, and that not ours. Be ide the dead 
There sits the grief that mantle^ up its head. 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light, 
When darkness, from the vainly-doting sights 



(40) 

* 

Covers its beautiful ! If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant 

brow, — 
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone 
Of earnest tenderness, which now, ev'n now, 
Seems floating through my soul, were music 

taken, 
For over from this world ! — oh ! thus forsaken, 
Could I bear on ? — thou liv'st, thou liv'st, 

thou'rt mine ! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a 

shrine, 
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall 

burn. 
Sit, a lone watcher for the day's return. 

IV. 

And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning, 

Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven. — I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. 
Oh ! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! — but on the breezy sea 
AVe shall meet soon. — To think of such an hoiu: ! 

Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss. 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss? 
Yet shall I fear that lot ? — the perfect rest. 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast. 
After long-suflering won ? So rich a close 
T(^o seldom crowns with peace affection's woes. 



(41) 

V. 

Simsot! — I tell each moment — from tlie skies 

The last red splendor floats along my wall, 
Like a king's banner ! — Now it melts, it dies ! 
I see one star — I hear! — 'twas not the call, 
Tli' expected voice ; my quick heart throbb'd 

too soon. 
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her 

beam 
Through my lone lattice pour'd, T sit and dream 
Of summer lands afar, where holy love, 
Under the vine, or in the citron-grove, 
May breathe from terror. 

Now the n ght grows deep, 
And silent as its clouds, and fu 1 of sleep. 
I hear my veins beat. — Haik ! a bell's slow 

chime ! 
My heart strikes with it. — Yet again — 'tis 

time ! 
A step ! — a voice ! — or but a rising breeze ? 
Hark ! — haste ! — I come, to meet thee on the 

seas. 

VL 

Now never more, oh ! never, in the worth 

Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 

Trust fondly — never m^ore! — the hope is crush 'd 

That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd 

T.'hat spoke sweet oracles ; and I return 

To lay my youth, as in a burial-urn. 

Where sunshine may not find it. — All is lost ! 

No tempest met our barks — no billow toss'd ; 
4* 



lU 



(43) 

Yet were they sever'd, ev'n as we must be, 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate ! In vain ! — in vain ! 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, 
And press out life. — Upon the deck I stood, 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood. 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eyo 
Strain'd out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seem'd slow to that fond yearning. It drew near, 
Fraught with our foes ! — What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears ? Once more a prison- wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my 

sight. 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour, thee ! 

I will not sink ! 

Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that 
bound thee ; 
And this shall be my strength — the joy to think 

That thou may'st wander with heaven's breath 
around thee ; 
And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet, 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken. 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 

VII. 

My friend, my friend ! where art thou ? Day 

by day, 
Glidmg, like some dark mournful stream, away, 



(43) 

My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the 

while, 
Comes and rains beauty on the kindling houghs 
Round hall and hamlet ; Summer, with her smile 
Fills the green forest j young hearts breal_io 

their vows ; 
Brothers, long parted, meet ; fair children rise 
Round the glad boai'd : Hope laughs from loving 

eyes : 
All this is in the world ! — These joys lie sown, 
The dew of every path — On one alone 
Their freshness may not fall — the stricken deer, 
Dying of thhst with all the waters near. 

VIII. 

Ye are from dmgle and fresh glade, ye flowers ! 

By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent ; 

O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers, 

And the lark's nest was where your bright cups 

bent, 
Quivering to breeze and rain drop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath 

been, 
Through the leaves, pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowmg hearts ; the bee to you 
Hath murmur'd, and the rill. — My soul grows 

faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams 

paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream, — the green, 

the free. 
The full of all sweet sound, — the shut from 

me ! 



(44) 

IX 

There went a swift bird singing past my cell -^ 
O Love and Freedom ! ye are lovely things ! 
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 

And by the streams ; but I — the blood of kings, 
A proud, unmingling river, through my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, — and its gifts are 

chains ! 
Kings ! — I had silent visions of deep bliss, 
Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car, 
An insect to be crush'd. — Oh ! Heaven is fair, 
Earth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour ? I am proved 
So long, so sternly ! Seymoiu, my beloved ! 
There are such tales of holy marvels done 
By strong affection, of deliverance won 
Through its prevailing power ! Are these things 

told 
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 
Wonder, yet dare not doubt, — and thou, oh ! 

thou, 
Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay ? — 
Thou canst not ! — tlirough the silent night, 

ev'n now, 
I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Still first for thee. — Oh ! gentle, gentle friend ! 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end ? 

Aid ! — comes there yet no aid? — the voice of 

blood 
Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood 



(45) 

Sinks through the greensward ! — is there not a 

cry 
From the wrung heart, of power, through agony, 
To pierce the clouds ? Hear, Mercy ! hear nie ! 

None 
That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun 
Have heavier cause ! — yet hear ! — my soul 

grows dark ; 
Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark, 
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, 
And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown, 
Its freight of hmnan hearts ? — th' o'ermastering 



wave 



Who shall tell how it rush'd — and none to save ^ 

Thou hast forsaken me ! I feel, I know, 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is 

pour'd, 
Thou'rt where the dancers meet ! — a magic glass 
I set within my soul, and proud shapes pass. 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and 

hall ; — 
1 see one shadow, stateliest there of all. — 
Thine ! — What dost thou amidst the bright and 

fair. 
Whispering light words, and mocKing my despair ^ 
It is not well of thee ! — my love was mc re 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought ex« 

plore. 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, 
With all its blighted hopes aromid it lying ; 



(46) 

Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green 

leaf — 
Yet smile, smile on ! too bright art thou for grief! 

Death ! — what, is death a lock'd and treasured 

thing, 
Guarded by swords of fire ? a hidden spring, 
A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure. 
As if the world within me held no cure ? 
Wherefore not spread free wings — Heaven, 

Heaven ! control 
These thoughts — they rush — I look into my 

soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at th' arra^?" 
Of fierce forms crowding it ! Give strength to 

pray, 
So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is still 'd, 
Father in Heaven ! Thou, only thou, canst 

sound. 
The hearts great deep, with floods of anguish 

fill'd, 
For human line too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father ! if Thy child, 
Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild 
And sinn'd in her despair ! It well may be, 
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee, 
By tLe crush'd hope too long on this world pour'd, 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in Thy place ! Now let me strive 
With thy strong arm no more ! Forgive, forgive ' 
Take me to peace ! 



(47) 

And peace at last is nigh. 
A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
Th' o'erwearied dust, from home ; no breeze 
flits by, 
Bat calls me with a strange sweet whisper, 
blent 
Of many mysteries. 

Hark ! the warning tone 
Deepens — its word is Death. Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chasten'd, I depart, 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Ev'n in this o'ershadowing fearfulness. 
Thee, its first love ! — oh ! tender still, and true ! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, 
Though but a moment. 

Now, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun. 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head. 
Years of bright fame when I am with the dead ! 
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
lis might, again to bless thee, and again ! 
Thou hast been gather 'd into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my sake, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youth ; but now take 

back, 
From dying hands thy freedom, and re track 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 



(48) 

Of hope, and find thou happiness. Yet send, 
Ev'n then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend! 
Down to my voiceless chamber ; for thy love 
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, 
Though bought with burning tears ! It is the 

sting 
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 
In this cold world ! What were it then, if thou, 
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now ? 
Too keen a pang ! — Farewell ! and yet once more 
Farewell — the passion of long years I pour 
Into that word : thou hear'st not, — ^but the woe 
And fervor of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place ; there let them dwell — 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet — Farewell ' 



CATHEDRAL HYMN. 

A DIM and mighty minster of old time ! 

A temple shadowy with remembrances 

Of the majestic past ! — the very light 

Streams with a coloring of heroic days 

In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle 

A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back 

To other years ; — and the rich fretted roof. 

And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, 

Tvy and vine, and many a sculptured rose — 

The tenderest image of mortality — 

Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts 

Ouster like stems in corn-sheaves — all these things 



(49) 

Toll of a race that nobly, fearlessly, 

On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love 

Honor be with the dead ! — The people kneel 

Under the helms of antique chivalry. 

And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, 

And 'midst the forms, in pale proud slumbei 

carved. 
Of warriors on their tombs. — The people kneel 
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt j where jew- 

ell'd crowns 
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set ; 
Where the high anthems of old victories 
Have made the dust give echoes. — Hence, vain 

thoughts ! 
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago 
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk 
In twilight depths away. — Return, my soul ! 
The cross recalls thee. — Lo ! the blessed cross ! 
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, 
Fix'd in his meek and still supremacy ! 
And lo ! the throng of beating human hearts, 
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, 
All their full treasures of immortal hope, 
Gather'd before their God ! — Hark ! how the 

flood 
Of the rich organ harmony bears up 
Their voice on its high waves ! — a mighty 

burst ! 
A forest-sounding music ! — every tone 
Which the blasts call forth with their harping 

wings 
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent : 
5 



fl 



(50) 

And the old minster — forest-like itself — 
With its long avenues of pillar 'd shade, 
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain 
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not 
One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy 
Answering the electric notes. — ^Join, join, my 

soul ! 
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, 
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. 

Rise like an altar-fire ! 

In solemn joy aspire. 
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain ! 

On thy strong rushing wind 

Bear up from human kind 
Thanks and implorings — be they not in vain ! 

Father, which art on high ! 

Weak is the melody 
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear. 

Unless the heart be there, 

Winging the words of prayer. 
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. 

Let, then, thy spirit brood 

Over the multitude — [Guest ! 

Be thou arriidst them through that heavenly 

So shall their cry have poAver 

To win from thee a shower 
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast. 

What griefs that make no sign 
That ask no aid but thine. 



(di) 

Father of Mercies ! here before thee swell, 

As to the open sky, 

All their dark waters lie 
To thee reveal'd, in each close bosom cell 

The sorrow for the dead 

Mantling its lonely head 
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free ; 

And the fond, aching love 

Thy minister, to move 
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee. 

And doth not thy dread eye 

Behold the agony 
In that most hidden chamber of the heeirt, 

Where darkly sits remorse, 

Beside the secret source 
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart ? 

Yes ! here before thy throne 

Many — yet each alone — 
To thee that terrible unveiling make ; 

And still small whispers clear 

Are startling many an ear, 
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake. 

How dreadful is this place ! 

The glory of thy face 
Fills it too search ingiy for mortal sight : 

Where shall the guilty flee ? 

Over what far-ofl' sea ? 
What hills, what wood?-', may shroud him from 
that light ? 



(52) 

Not to the cedar shade 

Let his vain flight be made ; 
N"or the old mountains, nor the desert sea ; 

What, but the cross, can yield 

The hope — the stay — the shield ? 
Thence may the Atoner lift him up to Thee ! 

Be thou, be thou his aid ! 

Oh ! let thy soul pervade 
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought ! 

There let the living stone 

Be cleft — the seed be sown — 
The song of fountains from the silence brought ! 

So shall thy breath once more 

Within the soul restore 
Thine own first image — Holiest and most High ! 

As a clear lake is fill'd 

With hues of Heaven, instill'd 
Down to the depths of its calm purity. 

And if, amidst the throng 

Link'd by the ascending song, [soar ; 
There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture 

Thanks, Father ! that the power 

Of joy, man's early dower. 
Thus, e'en midst tears, can fervently adore ! 

Thanks for each gift divine ' 

Eternal praise be thine. 
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer ! 

Let the hymn pierce the sky, 

And let the tombs reply ! 
For seed, that waits the harvest-time is there 



V5'3) 



EDITH ; 



A TALE OP THE WOODS. 

The woods — oh ! solemn are the boundless woods 

Of the great Western World, when day declines, 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines ; 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood, 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The miglit and burden of the solitude ! 
Yet, in that hour, 'midst those green wastes, 

there sate 
One young and fair ; and oh ! how desolate ! 
But undismay'd ; while sank the crimson light, 
And the high cedars darken'd with the ni2:ht. 
Alone she sate : though na^ny lay around, 
They, pale and silent on the "bloody ground. 
Were sever'd from her need and from her woe, 

Far as death severs Life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, 

And left them, with the history of their lot. 
Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene 
For her whose home of other days had been 
'Midst the fair halls of England ! but the love 

Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear ; 
And ])y its might upborne all else above, [near. 

She shrank not — niark'd not that the dead were 

5* 



(54) 

Of him alone she thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell ; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled 

While heavily she felt his life-blood well 
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wouna, 
Yet hoped, still hoped ! — Oh ! from such hoj)ii 
how long 
Affection woos the whispers that deceive, 
Ev'n when the pressure of dismay grows strong, 
And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er 
believe 
The blow indeed can fall ! So bow'd she there, 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Fill'd all her souL Now pour'd the moonlight 

down, 
Yeining the pine-stems through the foliage 

brown. 
And fireflies, kindling up the leafy place, 
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face, 
Whereby she caught its changes : to her eye 
The eye that faded look'd through gathering 
haze, 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony. 

Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze, 
When voice was not ; that fond sad meaning 

pass'd — 
She knew the fulness of her woe at last ! 
One shriek the forests heard, — and mute she lay 
And cold ; yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. Oh, Love and 

Death, 
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth, 



(55) 

Many and sad ! but airs of heavenly breath 
Shall melt the links that bind you, for your birth 
Is far apart. 

Now light, of a richer hue 
Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and 

dew ; 
The pines grew red with morning : fresh winds 

play'd, 
Bright-color'd birds with splendor cross'd the 

shade, 
Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad mm-murs 

broke 
From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living 

strings 
Of earth's ^olian lyre, whose music woke 
Into young life and joy all happy things. 
And she too woke from tnat long dreamless 

trance, 
The widow'd Edith : fearfully her glance 
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange. 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flash 'd o'er her spirit, ev'n ere memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thought, and 

slept ; 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled, 
Then faintly sank again. The forest bough, 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now — 
Where was she ? 'Midst the people of the vv^ld 

By the red hunter's fire : an aged chief, 
Whose home look'd sad — for therein play'd no 

child- 
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief 



(8t5) 

To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there, 

Won by a form so desolately fair, 

Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow 

sprung, 
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung, 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by. 
Bending in watchfulness his proud grey head, 

And leaning on his bow. 

And life return'd, 
Life, but with all its memories of the dead, 

To Edith's heart ; and well the sufferer learn'd 
Her task of meek endurance, Avell she wore 
The chasten' d grief that humbly can adore, 
'Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair. 
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air, 
Her presence was ; or as a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon 
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 

A daughter to the land of spirits go, 
And ever from that time her fading mien. 

And voice, like v/inds of summer, soft and low, 
Had haunted their dim years ; but Edith's face 
Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place. 
And they again seem'd parents. Oh ! the joy, 
Tlie rich deep blessedness — though earth's alloy. 
Fear that still bodes, be there — of pouring fortli 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and 

worth 
Of strong affection, in one healthful flow. 
On something all its own ! — that kindly glow, 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain. 
Gives the glad soul its flowering time agaia. 



(57) 

When, like the sunshine, freed. — And gentle 

cares 
Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus : — her spirit dwelt, the 

while. 
With the departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth ; — yet still sliu 

pray'd, 
Ev'n o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
Had been among the wilds ; for well she knew 
The secret whisper of her bosom true, 
Which warn'd her hence. 

And now, by many a word 
Link'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd, 
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn. 
Sung when the woods at eve grew hush'd and 

dim. 
By the persuasion of her fervent eye, 
All eloquent with childlike piety. 
By the still beauty of her life, she strove 
To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the 

love 
Pour'd out on her so freely. — Nor in vain 
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 
The soul in gentle bonds : by slow degrees 
Light follow'd on, as when a summer breeze 
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade 
And lets the simbeam through : — her voice was 

made 
Ev'n such a breeze ; and she a lowly guide, 
By faith and sorrow raised and purified. 



( 58 ) 

So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led, 

Until their prayers were one. When morning 

spread 
O'er the bhie lake, and when the sunset's glow 
Toach'd into golden bronze the cypress bough, 
And when the quiet of the Sabbath time 
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime 
Waken'd the wilderness, their prayers were one. 
— Now might she pass in hope, her work was 

done. 
And she was passing from the woods away ; 
The broken flower of England might not stay 
Amidst those alien shades ; her eye was bright 
Ev'n yet with something of a starry light. 
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak 
A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 
Of autumn through the forests had gone by, 
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had stroAvn, 
Flushing the air ; and winter's blast had been 
Amidst the pines ; and now a softer green 
Fringed their dark boughs ; for spring again had 

come, 
The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 
Was journeying fast. Alas ! we think it sad 
To part with life, when all the earth looks glad 
In her young lovely things, when voices break 
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms 

wake : 
Is it not brighter then, in that far clime 
Where graves are not, nor blights of changefu. 

time, 



(59) 

If here such glory dwell with passing blooms, 
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs ? 
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day, 
And sounds and odors with the breezes' play, 
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin 

door. 
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore ; 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 
*' My father ! " — to the gray-hair 'd chief she 

spoke — 
*' Know'st thou that I depart ? " — '' I know, I 

know," 
He answer'd mournfully, " that thou must go 
To thy beloved, my daughter ! " — '' Soitow not 
For me, kind mother ! " with meek smiles 

once more 
She murmnr'd in low tones ; '' one happy lot 
Awaits us, friends ! upon the better shore ; 
For we have pray'd together in one trust, 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust, 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine 

own. 
Under the cedar shade : where he is gone 
Thither I go. There will my^sisters be, 
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee 
My childhood's prayer was learn'd, — the Sav« 

iour's prayer 
Which now ye know, — and I shall meet you 

there. 
Father, and gentle mother ! — ye have bound 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's children." — From the matron's eye 
Oropp'd tears, her sole and passionate reply ; 



—1 



(60) 

Bat Edith felt them not ; for now a sleep, 

Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep, 

Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow. 

And mantling up his stately head in woe, 

" Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior 

old, 
In sounds like those by plaintive waters 

roll'd. 

" Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side, 

And the hunter's hearth away ; 
For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride. 

Daughter ! thou canst not stay. 

Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home. 

Where the skies are ever clear ; 
The corn-month's golden hours shall come^ 

But they shall not find thee here. 

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard, 

But not a song like thine. 

»■ 
A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 

Telling of winter gone, 
Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be 
Where farewell sounds are o'er ; 

Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see 
No fear of parting more. 



— r-j 

l! 



-'^1 



(61) 

The mossy grave thy tears have wet, 
And the wind's wild meanings by, 

Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, 
'Midst flowers — not such as die. 

The shadow from thy brow shall melt, 

The sorrow from thy strain, 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

Dim will our cabin be, and lone, 

When thou, its light, art fled ; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

And we will follow thee, our guide ! 

And join that shining band ; 
Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side — 

Go to the better land ! " 

The song had ceased — ^the listeners caught no 

breath. 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 

6 



^62) 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 



PART I. 

'Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades, 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, 
Where dwelt, in days departed long, 
The sons of battle and of song. 
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears. 
But o'er the wrecks of other years 
Temples and domes, which long have been 
The soil of that enchanted scene. 



There the wild fig tree and the vine 
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine ; 
The cypress, in funereal grace. 
Usurps the vanish'd column's place ; 
O'er fallen shrine, and ruin'd frieze, 
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze ; 
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide. 
They once adorn'd in sculptured pride ; 
And nature hath resumed her throne 
O'er the vast works of ages flown. 

Was it for this that many a pile, 
Pride of Illissus and the Nile, 
To Anio's banks the image lent 
Of each imperial monument ^ 



(63) 

Now Athens weeps her scatter'd fanes, 
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains ; 
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear'd 
From Tiber's vale have disappear'd. 
We need no prescient sibyl there, 
The doom of grandem- to declare, 
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, 
Reveals some oracle of Time : 
Each relic utters Fate's decree, 
The future as the past shall be. 

Halls of the dead ! in Tiber's vale, 
Who now shall tell your lofty tale ? 
Who trace the high patrician's dome, 
The bard's retreat, the hero's home ? 
When moss-clad wrecks alone record. 
There dwelt the world's departed lord ' 
In scenes where verdure's rich array 
Still sheds young beauty o'er decay, 
And sunshine, on each glowing hill, 
'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. 

Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom. 
Though vanish'd with the days of old 
Its pillars of Corinthian mould ; 
And the fair forms by sculpture wrought, 
Each bodying some immo 'tal thought, 
Which o'er that temple of the dead, 
Serene, but solemn beauty shed, 
Have found, like glory's self, a grave 
In Time's abyss or Tiber's wave : 



(64) 

Yet dreams more lofty and more fair, 
Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er, 
High thoughts of many a mighty mind, 
Expanding when all else declined, 
In twilight years, when only they 
llecall'd the radiance pass'd away, 
Have made that ancient pile their home, 
Fortress of freedom and of Rome. 

There he, who strove in evil days, 
Again to kindle glory's rays. 
Whose spirit sought a path of light. 
For those dim ages far too bright, 
Crescentius long maintain'd the strife. 
Which closed but with its martyr's life, 
And left the imperial tomb a name, 
A heritage of holier fame. 
There closed De Brescia's mission high, 
From thence the patriot came to die ; 
And thou, whose Roman soul the last, 
Spoke with the voice of ages past, 
Whose thoughts so long from earth hath fledj 
To mingle with the glorious dead. 
That 'midst the world's degenerate race. 
They vainly sought a dwelling-place, 
Within that house of death didst brood 
O'er visions to thy ruin woo'd. 
Yet worthy of a brighter lot, 
Rienzi ! be thy faults forgot ! 
For thou, when all around thee lay 
Chain' d in the slumbers of decay ; 
So sunk each heart, that mortal eye 
Had scarce a tear less for liberty ; 



-H 



^65) 

Alone, amidst the darkness there, 
Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair ! 

'Tis morn, and Nature's richest dyes 
Are floating o'er Italian skies ; 
Tints of transparent Uistre sliine 
Along the snow-clad Apenine ; 
The clouds have left Soracte's height, 
And yellow Tiber winds in light. 
Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew'd 
The wild Campagna's solitude. 
'Tis sad amidst that scene to trace 
Those relics of a vanish'd race ; 
Yet o'er the ravaged path of time. 
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, 
Where nature still, though empires fall, 
Holds her triumphant festival ; 
E'en desolation wears a smile. 
Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while ; 
And Heaven's own light, Earth's richest bloom 
Array the ruin and the tomb. 

But she, who from yon convent tower 
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour ; 
She, whose rich flow of raven hair 
Streams wildly on the morning air ; 
Heeds not how fair the scene below. 
Robed in Italia's brightest glow. 
Though throned 'midst Latium's classic plains. 
Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes. 
And they, the Pleiades of the earth. 
The seven proud hills of Empire's birth. 
6* 



(66) 

Lie spread beneath : not now hei glance 

Roves o'er that vast, sublime expanse ; 

Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown 

On Hadrian's massy tomb alone ; 

There, from the storm when Freedom fied, 

His faithful few Crescentius led ! 

While she, his anxious bride, who now, 

Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow, 

Sought refuge in the hallow'd fane. 

Which then could shelter, not in vain. 

But now the lofty strife is o'er, 

And Liberty shall weep no more. 

At length imperial Otho's voice 

Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; 

And he, who battled to restore 

The glories and the rights of yore, 

Whose accents, like the clarion's sound, 

Could burst the dead repose around, 

Again his native Rome shall see, 

The sceptred city of the free ! 

And young Stephania waits the hour 

When leaves her lord his fortress-tower, 

Her ardent heart with joy elate, 

That seems beyond the reach of fate j 

Her mien, like creature from above, 

All vivified with hope and love. 

Fair is her form, and in her eye 
Lives all the soul of Italy ! 
A meaning lofty and inspired. 
As by her native day-star fired : 
Such wild and high expression, fraught 
With glances of impassion'd thought. 



(67) 

As fancy sheds its vision bright 

O'er priestess of the God of Light ! 

And the dark locks that lend her face 

A youthful and luxuriant grace, 

Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes 

Seem from the fire within to rise ; 

But deepen'd by the burning heaven 

To her own land of sunbeams given. 

Italian art that fervid glow 

Would o'er ideal beauty throw, 

And with such ardent life express 

Her high- wrought dreams of loveliness ; — 

Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall, 

The shade of glory still recall. 

But see, — the banner of the brave, 
O'er Hadrian's tomb hath ceas'd to wave. 
'Tis lower 'd — and now Stephania's eye 
Can well the martial train descry. 
Who, issuing from that ancient dome, 
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome 
Now from her watch-tower on the height, 
With step as fabled wood-nymph's light, 
She flies — and swift her way pursues 
Through the lone convent's avenues. 
Dark cypress-groves, and fields o'erspread 
With records of the conquering dead, 
And paths which tiack a glowing Wciste, 
She traverses in breathless haste : 
And by the tombs where dust is shrined, 
Once tenanted by loftiest mind, 
Still passing on, hath reach'd the gate 
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ' 



Throng'd are the streets, and, still renew'd, 
Rush on the gathering multitude 

Is it their high-souPd chief to greet, 
That thus the Roman thousands meet ? 
With names that bid their thouglits ascend, 
Crescentius, thine in song to blend ; 
And of triumphal days gone by 
Recall th' inspiring pageanty ? 
— There is an air of breathless dread, 
An eager glance, a hurrying tread ; 
And now a fearful silence round, 
And now a fitful murmuring sound, 
'Midst the pale croAvds, that almost seem 
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream, 
Quick is each step, and wild each mien, 
Portentous of some awful scene. 
Bride of Crescentius ! as the throng 
Bore thee with whelming force along, 
How did thine anxious heart beat high. 
Till rose suspense to agony ! 
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, 
And leave thy heart to deeper woes. 

Who 'midst yon guarded precinct standSj 
With fearless mien, but fetter'd hands ? 
The ministers of death are nigh, 
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye ; 
And in his glance there lives a mind. 
Which was not form'd fof chains to bind, 
But cast in such heroic mould 
As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. 
Crescentius ! freedom's daring son, 
Is this the guerdon thou hast won ? 



af=i 



(69) 

Oh, worthy to have lived and died 
In the bright days of Latium's pride ! 
Thns must the beam of glory close, 
O'er the seven hills again that rose, 
When at thy voice to burst the yoke, 
The soul of Rome indignant woke ? 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone, 
Sunk is the crowning city's throne : 
Th' illusions that around her cast 
Their guardian spells have long been pa^t. 
Thy life hath been a shot-star's ray, 
Shed o'er her midnight of decay ; 
Thy death at Freedom's ruin'd shrme 
Must rivet every chain — ^but thine. 

Calm is his aspect, and his eye 
Now fix'd upon the deep blue sky, 
Now on those wrecks of ages fled. 
Around in desolation spread ; 
Arch, temple, column, worn and grey, 
Recording triumphs pass'd away ; 
Works of the mighty and the free, 
Whose steps on earth no more shall be, 
Though their bright course hath left a traca 
Nor years nor sorrows can efface. 

Why changes now the patriot's mien 
Ere while so loftily serene ? 
Thus can approaching death control 
The might of that commanding soul ? 
jVo I — Heard ye not that thrilling cry 
Which told of bitterest agony ? 
He heard it, and, at once subdued, 
Hath sunk the hero's fortitude, 



(70) 

He heard it, and his heart too well 

Whence rose that voice of woe can tell ; 

And 'midst the gazing throngs around 

One well-known form his glance hath found ] 

One fondly loving and beloved. 

In grief, in peril, faithful proved. 

Yes, in the wildness of despair. 

She, his devoted bride, is there. 

Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies, 

The light of frenzy in her eyes : 

But ere her arms can clasp the form 

Which life ere long must cease to warm ; 

Ere on his agonizing breast 

Her heart can heave, her head can rest ; 

Check 'd in her course by ruthless hands, 

Mute, motionless, at once she stands ; 

With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, 

Frozen and fix'd in horror's trance ; 

Spell-bound, as every sense were fled, 

And thought o'erwhelm'd, and feeling dead. 

And the light waving of her hair. 

And veil, far floating on the air, 

Alone, in that dread moment, show, 

She is no sculptured form of woe. 

The scene of grief and death is o'er, 
The patriot's heart shall throb no more ; 
But hers — so vainly form'd to prove 
The pure devotedness of love, 
And draw from fond afl'ection's eye 
All thoughts sublime, all feelings high ; 
When consciousness again shall wake 
Hath now no refuge — ^but to break 



(71) 

The spirit long inured to pain 

May smile at fate in calm disdain ; 

Survive its darkest hour, and rise 

In more majestic energies. 

But in the glow of vernal pride, 

If each warm hope at once hath died, 

Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower, 

Dead to the sunbeam and the shower ; 

A broken gem, whose inborn light 

Is scattered — ne'er to reunite. 

PART II. 

Hast thou a scene that is not spread 
With records of thy glory fled ? 
A monument that doth not tell 
The tale of liberty's farewell ? 
Italia ! thou £irt but a grave 
Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave, 
And Nature gives her treasures birth 
O'er all that hath been great on eai'tli.. 
Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled, 
When thou wert Freedom's favor 'd child ; 
Though fane and tomb alike are low. 
Time hath not dimm'd thy sunbeam's glow j 
And robed in that exulting ray. 
Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay ; 
O yet, though by thy sorrows bent, 
In nature's pomp magnificent ! 
What marvel if, when all was lost, 
Still on thy bright enchanted coast, 
Though many an omen warn'd him thence, 
Linger 'd the lord of eloquence ! 



(72) 

Still gazing on the lovely sky, 

Whose radiance woo'd him — but to die : 

Like him, who would not linger there, 

Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair ? 

Who 'midst thy glowing scenes could dwell, 

Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell ? 

Hath not thy pure and genial air 

Balm for all sadness but despair ? 

No ! there are pangs, whose deep- worn trace 

Not all thy magic can efface ! 

Hearts, by unkindness wrung, may learn 

The world and all its gifts to spurn ; 

Time may steal on with silent tread. 

And dry the tear that mourns the dead ; 

May change fond love, subdue regret, 

And teach e'en vengeance to forget : 

But thou. Remorse ! there is no charm 

Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 

Vain are bright suns, and laughing skies, 

To soothe thy victim's agonies : 

The heart once made thy burning throne. 

Still, while it beats, is thine alone. 

In vain for Otho's joyless eye 
Smile the fair scenes of Italy, 
As through her landscapes' rich array, 
Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. 
Thy form, Crescentius, on his sight 
Rises when nature laughs in light. 
Glides round him at the midnight hour, 
Is present in his festal bower. 
With awful voice and frowning mien. 
By all but him unheard, unseen. 



(73) 

Oh ! thus to shadows of the grave 
Be every tyrant still a slave ! 

Where through Gorgano's woody dells. 
O er bending oaks the north wind swells, 
A sainted hermit's lowly tomb 
Is bosom'd in umbrageous gloom, 
In shades that saw him live and die 
Beneath their waving canopy. 
'Twas his, as legends tell, to share 
The converse of immortals there ; 
Around that dweller of the wild 
There ''bright appearances" have smiled. 
And angel- wings, at eve, have been 
Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. 
And often from that secluded bower 
Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour, 
A swell of viewless harps, a sound 
Of warbled anthems pealing round. 
Oh, none but voices of the sky 
Might wake that thrilling harmony 
Whose tones, whose very echoes, made 
An Eden of the lonely shade ! 

Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps 
Amidst Gorgano's woods and steeps ! 
Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown 
And veil'd his low, sepulchral stone 
Yet still the spot is holy, still 
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; 
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer 
Aerial vesper hymns may hear 
7 



(74) 

Around those forest precincts float, 
Soft, solemn, clear, — but still remote. 
Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint 
To that rude shrine's departed saint, 
And deem that spirits of the blest 
There shed sweet influence o'er her breast. 

And thither Otho now repairs 
To soothe his soul with vows and prayers ; 
And if for him, on holy ground, 
The lost one. Peace, may yet be found, 
'Midst rocks and forests, by the bed 
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead. 
She dwells, remote from heedless eye, 
With Nature's lonely majesty. 

Vain, vain the search — ^his troubled breast 
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest ; 
The weary pilgrimage is o'er. 
The hopes that cheer'd it are no more. 
Then sinks his soul, and day by day, 
Youth's buoyant energies decay. 
The light of health his eye hath flown, 
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. 
Joyless as one on whom is laid 
Some baleful spell that bids him fade, 
Extending its mysterious power 
O'er every scene, o'er every hour ; 
E'en thus he withers ; and to him, 
Italia's brilliant skies are dim. 
He withers — 'in that glorious clime 
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time ; 
And suns, that shed on all below 
Their full and vivifying glow, 



(75) 

From him alone their power withhold, 
And leave his heart in darkness cold. 
Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair, 
He only seems to perish there. 

Yet sometimes will a transient smile 
Play o'er his faded cheek awhile, 
When breathes his minstrel-boy a strain 
Of power to lull all earthly pain ; 
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem 
Th' ethereal music of a dream, 
A spirit's voice from worlds unknown, 
Deep thrilling power in every tone ! 
Sweet is that lay, and yet its flow 
Hath language only given to woe ; 
And if at times its wakening swell 
Some tala of glory seems to tell. 
Soon the proud notes of triumph die, 
Lost in a dirge's harmony. 
Oh ! many a pang the heart hath proved, 
Hath deeply suffer'd, fondly loved. 
Ere the sad strain could catch from thence 
Such deep impassion'd eloquence ! 
Yes ! gaze on him, that minstrel-boy- — 
He is no child of hope and joy ; 
Though few his years, yet have they been 
Such as leave traces on the mien. 
And o'er the roses of our prime 
Breathe other blights than those of time. 

Yet, seems his spirit wild and proud, 
By grief unsoften'd and unbow'd. 
Oh ! there are sorrows which impart 
A sternness foreign to the heart, 



(76) 

And rushing with an earthquake's power, 
That makes a desert in an hour ; 
Rouse the dread passions in their course, 
As tempests wake the billows' force ! — 
'Tis sad on youthful Guido's face, 
The stamp of woes like these to trace. 
Oh ! where can ruins awe mankind 
Dark as the ruins of the mind ? 

His mien is lofty, but his gaze 
Too well a wandering soul betrays : 
His full, dark eye at times is bright 
With strange and momentary light, 
Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 
O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow ; 
And oft his features and his air 
A shade of troubled mystery wear, 
A glance of hurried wildness, fraught 
With some unfathomable thought. 
Whate'er that thought, still unexpress'd, 
Dwells the sad secret in his breast ; 
The pride his haughty brow reveals, 
All other passion well conceals. 
He breathes each wounded feeling's tone 
In music's eloquence alone ; 
His soul's deep voice is only pour'd 
Through his full song and swelling chord. 
He seeks no friend, but shuns the train 
Of courtiers with a proud disdain ; 
And, save when Otho bids his lay 
Its half unearthly power essay. 
In hall or bower the heart to thrill. 
His haunts are wild and lonely still. 



(77) 

Far distant from the heedless throng, 
He roves old Tiber's banks along, 
Where Empire's desolate remains 
Lie scatter'd o'er the silent plains ; 
Or, lingering 'midst each ruin'd shrine 
That strews the desert Palatine, 
With mournful, yet commanding mien, 
Like the sad Genius of the scene. 
Entranced in awful thought appears 
To commune with departed years. 
Or at the dead of night, when Rome 
Seems of heroic shades the home ; 
When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls, 
The mighty to their ancient halls ; 
W^hen hush'd is every meaner sound, 
And the deep moonlight-calm around 
Leaves to the solemn scene alone 
The majesty of ages flown ; 
A pilgrim to each hero's tomb, 
He wanders through the sacred gloom; 
And, 'midst those dwellings of decay, 
At times will breathe so sad a lay, 
So wild a grandeur in each tone, 
'Tis like a dirge for empires gone ! 

Awake thy pealing harp again. 
But breathe a more exulting strairi- 
Young Guido ! for a while forgot 
Be the dark secrets of thy lot, 
And rouse th' inspiring soul of song 
To speed the banquet's hour along ! 
The feast is spread ; and music's call 
Is echoing through the royal hall, 
7^ 



(78) ~ 

And banners wave and trophies shine, 

O'er stately guests in glittering line ; 

And Otho seeks awhile to chace 

The thoughts he never can erase, 

And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep 

Rise like a spirit on his sleep, 

The still small voice of conscience die, 

Lost in the din of revelry. 

On his pale brow dejection lowers. 

But that shall yield to festal hours ; 

A gloom is in his faded eye. 

But that from music's power shall fly ; 

His wasted cheek is wan with care. 

But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there* 

Wake, Guido ! wake thy numbers high, 

Strike the bold chord exultingly ! 

And pour upon th' enraptured ear 

Such strains as warriors love to hear ! 

Let the rich mantling goblet flow, 

And banish all resembling woe ; 

And, if a thought intrude, of power 

To mar the bright convivial hour, 

Still must its influence lurk unseen. 

And cloud the heart — ^but not the mien ! 

Away, vain dream ! — on Otho's brow 
Still darker lower the shadows now ; 
Changed are his features, now o'erspread 
With the cold paleness of the dead ; 
Now crimson'd with a hectic dye. 
The burning flush of agony ! 
His lip is quivering, and his breast 
Heaves, with convulsive pangs oppress'd ; 



(79) 

Now his dim eye seems fix'd and glazed, 
And now to heaven in anguish raised ; 
And as, with unavaiHng aid, 
Around him throng his guests dismay'd, 
He sinks — while scarce his struggling breath 
Hath power to falter — '' This is death ! " 

Then rush'd that haughty child of song 
Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng ; 
Fill'd with a strange delirious light, 
His kindling eye shone wildly bright. 
And on the sufferer's mien awhile 
Gazing with stern vindictive smile, 
A feverish glow of triumph dyed 
His burning cheek, while thus he cried : — 
" Yes ! these are death pangs — on thy brow 
Is set the seal of vengeance now ! 
Oh ! well was mix'd the deadly draught. 
And long and deeply hast thou quaffed ; 
And bitter as thy pangs may be. 
They are but guerdons meet from me ! 
Yet, these are but a moment's throes, 
Howe'er intense, they soon shall close. 
Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath, 
My life hath been a lingering death ; 
Since one dark hour of woe and crime, 
A blood-spot on the page of time ! 

" Deem'st thou my mind of reason void ? 
It is not frenzied, — ^but destroy'd ! 
Aye ! view the wreck with shuddeiiiig 

thought, — 
That work of ruin thou hast wrought! 



(80) 

*' The secret of thy doom to tell, 
My name alone suffices well ! 
Stephania ! once a hero's bride ! 
Otho ! thou know'st the rest — he died. 
Yes ! trusting to a monarch's word, 
The Roman fell, untried, unheard ! 
And thou, whose every pledge was vain 
How couldst thou trust in aught again ? 

" He died, and I was changed — -my soulj 
A lonely wanderer, spurn'd control. 
From peace, and light, and glory hurl'd, 
The outcast of a purer world, 
I saw each brighter hope overthrown, 
And lived for one dread task alone. 
The task is closed — fulfill'd the vow. 
The hand of death is on thee now. 
Betrayer ! in thy turn betray'd, 
The debt of blood shall soon be paid ! 
Thine hour is come — the time has been 
My heart had shrunk from such a scene j 
That feeling long is past — my fate 
Hath made me stern as desolate. 

" Ye, that round me shuddering stand 
Ye chiefs and princes of the land ! 
Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom ? 
— Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb ! 
He sleeps unhonor'd — yet be mine 
To share his low, neglected shrine. 
His soul with freedom finds a home, 
His grave is that of glory — Rome ! 
Are not the great of old with her, 
That city of tie sepulchre ? 



(81) 

Lead me to death ! and let me share 
The slumbers of the mighty there ! " 

The day departs — that fearful day 
Fades in calm loveliness away ; 
From purple heavens its lingering beam 
Seems melting into Tiber's stream, 
And softly tints each Roman hill 
With glowing light, as clear and still, 
As if, unstain'd by crime or woe, 
Its hours had pass'd in silent flow. 
The day sets calmly — it hath been 
Mark'd with a strange and awful scene : 
One guilty bosom throbs no more, 
And Otho's pangs and life are o'er. 
And thou, ere yet another sun 
His burning race hath brightly run, 
Released from anguish by thy foes. 
Daughter of Rome ! shalt find repose- 
Yes ! on thy country's lovely sky 
Fix yet once more thy parting eye ! 
A few short hours — and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
Oh ! thus with tempests of a day 
We struggle, and we pass away. 
Like the wild billows as they sweep, 
Leaving no vestige on the deep I 
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed 
The sons of future days shall tread, 
The pangs, the conflicts of thy lot, 
By them unknown, by thee forgot. 



(T' 



(82) 



DARTMOOR. 



A PRIZE POEM. 



AaiiDST the peopled and the regal Isle, 
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile ^ 
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower, 
And send on every breeze a voice of power j 
Hath Desolation rear'd herself a throne, 
And mark'd a pathless region for her own ? 
Yes ! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore, 
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore, 
Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent, 
When empires totter'd and the earth was rent ; 
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind 
Had still'd life's busy murmurs on the wind, 
And, flushed with power, in daring pride's excess, 
Stamp'd on thy soil the curse of barrenness ; 
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven, 
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given ; 
Wild Dartmoor ! thou that, 'midst thy moun- 
tains rude, 
Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude, 
As a dark cloud on summer's clear blue sky, 
A mourner circled with festivity ! 
For all beyond is life ! — the rolling sea. 
The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach nol 

thee. 
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare, 
But man has left his lingering traces there ? 



-H 



(83) 

E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains, 
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns. 
In gloom and silence, fearfully profound. 
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound, 
Though the sad wand'rer of the burning zone 
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone, 
And nought of life be near ; his camel's tread 
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead ! 
Some column, rear'd by long-forgotten hands. 
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands — 
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene, 
And tells that glory's footstep there hath been. 
There hath the spirit of the mighty pass'd. 
Not without record ; though the desert blast, 
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away 
The proud creations rear'd to brave decay. 
But thou, lone region ! whose unnoticed name 
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame. 
Who shall unfold thine annals ? — who shall tell 
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell. 
In those far ages, which left no trace. 
No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race ? 
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days 
Of kings and chiefs, who pass'd without their 

praise, 
Thou might'st have rear'd the valiant and the 

free ; 
In history's page there is no tale of thee. 

Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild 
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled, 
But hallow'd by that instinct which reveres / 
Things fraught with characters of elder years. 



lb: 



<r^ 



(84) 

And such are these. Long centuries are flown, 
Bow'd many a crest, and shatter'd many a throne, 
Mingling the urn,the trophy, and the bust, 
With what they hide — their shrined and treas- 
ured dust ; 
Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold 
Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her 

mould ; 
But still these nameless chronicles of death, 
'Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath, 
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear 
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share 
Th' eternity of nature, with the forms 
Of the crown'd hills beyond, the dwellings of 
the storms. 

Yet, what avails it, if each moss-grown heap 
Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, 
Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath 
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season's 

breath? 
Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest. 
Thus rudely pillow'd on the desert's breast ? 
Doth the sword sleep beside them ? Hath there 

been 
A sound of battle 'midst the silent scene 
Where now the flocks repose ? — did the scythed 

car 
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war ? 
And raise these piles in memory of the slain, 
And the red combat of the mountain-plain ? 

It may be thus : — the vestiges of strife, 
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life. 



(85) 

And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell 
How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell 
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior's pride, 
The chieftain's power — they had no bard, and 

died. 
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, 
The eternal stars of night have witness'd here. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone, 
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone, 
Propp'd on its granite pillars, whence the rains. 
And pure bright dews, have laved the crimson 

stains 
Left by dark rites of blood : for here, of yore. 
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore. 
And many a crested oak, which now lies low, 
Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe ; 
Here, at dead midnight, through the haunted 

shade, 
On Druid-harps the quivering moonbeam play'd. 
And spells were breath'd, that fiU'd the deep- 
ening gloom 
With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb. 
Or, haply, torches waving through the night. 
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height, 
Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams 
Threw o'er the desert's hmidred hills and 

streams, 
A savage grandeur : while the starry skies 
Rung with the peal of mystic harmonies. 
As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth 
To the storm-ruling powers, the war-gods of the 
North. 
8 



(86) 

But wilder sounds were there ; th' imploring 
cry- 
That woke the forest's echo in reply, 
But not the heart's ! — Unmoved, the wizard train 
Stood round their human victim, and in vain 
His prayer for mercy rose ; in vain his glance 
Look'd up, appealing to the blue expanse. 
Where, in their calm, immortal beauty, shone 
Heaven's cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter 

moan. 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay, 
Till, drop by drop, life's current ebb'd away ; 
Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red. 
And the pale moon gleam'd paler on the dead. 
Have such things been, and here ? — where still- 
ness dwells 
'Midst the rude barrows and the moorland swells, 
Thus undisturb'd ? — Oh ! long the gulf of time 
Hath closed in darkness o'er those days of 

crime, 
And earth no vestige of their path retains. 
Save such as these, which strew her loneliest 

plains 
With records of man's conflicts and his doom, 
His spirit and his dust — the altar and the tomb 
But ages roll'd away ; and England stood, 
With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood 
And with a lofty calmness in her eye. 
And regal in collected majesty. 
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze 
Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seais; 
And other lands, redeem'd and joyous, drank 
The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank 



n=^ 



(87) 

On the red fields they won ; whose wild flowers 

wave 
Now in luxuriant beauty, o'er their grave. 

'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war, 
Here for their lovely southern climes afar 
In bondage pined : the spell-deluded throng 
Dragg'd at ambition's chariot-wheels so long 
To die — ^because a despot could not clasp 
A sceptre, fitted to his boundless grasp ! 

Yes ! they whose march had rock'd the 
ancient thrones 
And temples of the world ; the deepening tones 
Of whose advancing trumpet, from repose 
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes ; 
Were prisoners here. — And there were some 

whose dreams 
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain- 
streams, 
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain 
And festal melody of Loire or Seine, 
And of those mothers who had watch 'd and 

wept. 
When on the field the mishelter'd conscript 

slept. 
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some 

were 
Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair ,• 
Who, in their dark imaginings, again 
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane, 
Drank in the victim's shriek, as music's breath, 
And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death ! 



(88) 

And there was mirth, too ! — strange aiid 

savage mirth, 
More fearful far than all the woes of earth ! 
The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that 

spring 
From minds for which there is no sacred thing, 
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee — 
The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree ! 

But still, howe'er the soul's disguise was worn, 
If, from wild revelry, or haughty scorn. 
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show. 
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it — woe. 

Yet, was this all ? amidst the dungeon-gloom, 
The void, the stillness, of the captive's doom, 
Were there no deeper thoughts ? — and that dark 

power. 
To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour, 
The mighty debt through years of crime delay'dj 
But, as the grave's, mevitably paid ; 
Came he not thither, in his burning force, 
The lord, the tamer of dark souls — ^remorse ? 

Yes ! as the night calls forth from sea and sky, 
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony, 
Lost, when the swift, triumphant wheels of day, 
In light and sound, are hurrying on their way • 
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart, 
The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might 

start, 
Oall'd up by solitude, each nerve to thrill 
With accents heard not, save when all is still ! 



L 



(89) 

The voice, inaudible when havoc's train 
Crush'd the red vintage of devoted Spain ; 
Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung, 
And the broad hght of conflagration sprung 
From the south's marble cities ; — hush'd 'midst 

cries 
That told the heavens of mortal agonies : 
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last 
In concentrated thunders of the past ! 

And there, perchance, some long-be wilder 'd 

mind. 
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined 
Of village duties, in the Alpine glen. 
Where nature cast its lot, 'midst peasant-men ; 
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent 
The earthquake power of each wild element. 
To lend the tide, which bore his throne on high, 
One impulse more of desperate energy ; 
Might — when the billow's awful rush was o'er, 
Which tcss'd its wreck upon the storm-beat shore, 
Won from its wand'rings past, by sutTerings tried, 
Searched by remorse, by anguish purified — 
Have fix'd, at length, its troubled hopes and fears, 
On the far world, seen brightest through out 

tears. 
And, in that hour of triumph or despair, 
Whose secrets all must learn, but none declare. 
When of the thhigs to come, a deeper sense 
Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence, 
Have turn'd to Him whose bow is in the cloua. 
Aromid life's limits gathering, as a shroud ; — 
8* 



(90) 

The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows, 
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose ! 

Who visited that deathbed ? — Who can tell 
Its brief, sad tale, on which the soul might 

dwell, 
And learn immortal lessons ? — ^who beheld 
The struggling hope, by shame, by douht 

repell'd — 
The agony of prayer — the bmsting tears — 
The dark remembrances of guilty years. 
Crowding upon the spirit in their might ? 
He, through the storm who look'd, and there 

was light ! 

That scene is closed ! — that wild, tumultuous 
breast, 
With all Its pangs and passions, is at rest ! 
He too, is fallen, the master-power of strife 
Who woke those passions to delirious life ; 
And days, prepared a brighter course to run. 
Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun ! 

It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth 
O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north, 
And with one radiant glance, one magic breath, 
Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death ^ 
While the glad voices of a thousand streams, 
Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams ! 

But Peace hath nobler changes ! O'er the 
mind. 
The warm and living spirit of mankind, 



(91) 

Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted 

heart, 
To life and hope from desolation start ! 
She, with a look, dissolves the captive's chain, 
Peopling with beauty widow'd homes again ; 
Around the mother, in her closing years, 
Gathering her sons once more, and from the 

tears 
Of the dim past, but winning purer light. 
To make the present more serenely bright. 

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to 

clime. 
In silence gliding with the stream of time. 
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, ap a breeze 
With healing on its wings, o'er isles and seas : 
And, as Heaven's breath call'd forth, with genial 

power, 
From the dry wand, the almond's living flower ; 
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move 
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love : 
While round its pathway nature softly glows. 
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose. 

Yes ! let the waste lift up the exulting voice ! 
Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice ! 
And thou, lone moor ! where no blithe reaper's 

song 
E'er lightly sped the summer hours along. 
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source 
Rushing in joy, make music, on their course ! 
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark 
The sc3ne of barbarous rites, in ages dai'k 



(92) 

A.nd of some nameless combat : hope's brig?it eye 
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy ! 
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest, 
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast ! 
Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn, 
Rise, in blue wreaths, above the flowering thorn, 
And, 'midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom' d 

spire 
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest 

fire. 

Thee too that hour shall bless, the balmy 

close 
Of labor's day, the herald of repose, 
Which gathers hearts m peace ; while social 

mirth 
Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth ; 
While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales. 
And merry England's voice floats up from all 

her vales. 
Yet are there sweeter sounds ; and thou shalt 

hear 
Such as to Heaven's immortal hosts are dear. 
Oh ! if there still be melody on earth. 
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew 

birth, 
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode, 
And the air trembled with the breath of God ; 
It lives in those soft accents to the sky 
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, 
When holy strains, from life's pure font which 

sprung. 
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on its tongue. 



(93) 

And such shall be thy music, when the ceils, 
V^^here Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery^ 

dwells, 
(And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, 
In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) 
Resound to pity's voice ; and childhood thence, 
Ere the cold blight hath reached its innocence, 
Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled, 
Which vice but breathes on, and its hues are 

dead, 
Shall at the call press forward, to be made 
A glorious offering, meet for him who said, 
'^ Mercy, not sacrifice ! " and when, of old, 
Clouds of rich incense from his altars roU'd, 
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare 
The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there ! 

When some crown'd conqueror, o'er a trampled 

world 
His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl 'd, 
And, like those visitations w^hich deform 
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm 
His pathway to dominion's lonely sphere, 
Silence behind — before him flight and fear ; 
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing 

wheels. 
Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels, 
And earth is moulded but by one proud Avill, 
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still ; 
Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay, 
The earthquake homage on its baleful way ? 
Shall the glad harp send up exulting strains 
O'er burning cities and forsaken plains ? 



(94) 

A.nd shall no harmony of softer close 
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows, 
And, mingling with the murmur of its wave, 
Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave ? 

Oh ! there are loftier themes, for him whose 

eyes 
Have searched the depths of life's realities. 
Than the red battle, or the trophied car, 
Wheeling the monarch-victor fast and far ; 
There are more noble strains than those which 

swell 
The triumphs, ruin may suffice to tell ! 

Ye prophet-bards, who sat in elder days 
Beneath the palms of Judah ! Ye whose lays 
With torrent rapture, from their source on high, 
Burst in the strength of immortality ! 
Oh ! not alone, those haunted groves among, 
Of conquering hosts, of empires crnsh'd, ye 

sung. 
But of that spirit, destined to explore 
With the bright day-spring every distant shore. 
To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed, 
To make the home of peace in hearts that 

bleed ; 
With beams of home to pierce the dungeon's 

gloom, 
And pour eternal star-light o'er the tomb. 

And bless'd and hallow'd be its haunts! for 
there 
Hath man's high soul been rescued from despair 



(95) 

There hath the immortal spark for Heaven been 

nursed ; 
There from the rock the springs of life have 

burst, 
Quenchless and piu*e ! and holy thoughts that 

rise, 
Warm from the som'ce of human sympathies- 
Where'er its path of radiance may be traced, 
Shall find their temples in the silent waste. 



PROPERZIA- ROSSI. 

I. 

One dream of passion and of beauty more ! 
And in its bright fulfillment let me pour 
My soul away ! Let earth retain a trace 
Of that which lit my being, though its race 
Might have been loftier far. — Yet one more 

dream ! 
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 
Ere I depart ! For thee alone, for thee ! 
May this last work, this farewell triumph be 
Thou, loved so vainly ! 1 would leave en 

shrined 
Something immortal of my heart and mind, 
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone, 
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 
Of lost affection ; — something that may prove 
WTiat sne hath been, whose melancholy love 



(96) 

On thee was lavish'd ; silent pang and tear, 
And fervent song that gush'd when none were 

near, 
And dream by night, and weary thought by day. 
Stealing the brightness from her life away, — 

While thou Awake ! not yet within me die, 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness, — my spirit, wake ! 

Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake. 

Live ! in thy work breathe out ! — ^that he may 

yet. 
Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 
Thine unrequited gift. 

II. 

It comes, — the power 
Within me born, flows back ; my fruitless dower. 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images : — they throng — ^they press — 
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness, 
I shall not perish all ! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose. 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty ; line by line, 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine, 
Through the pale marble's veins. It grows — 

and now 
[ give my own life's history to thy brow, 
Forsaken Ariadne ! thou shalt wear 
My form, my lineaments ; but oh ! more fair 



(97) 

Touch'd into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light 
All things are glorified. From thee my woe 
Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, 
When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' imtold^ 
The self-consuming ! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea. 
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye, 
Speak to him, lone one ! deeply, mournfully, 
Of all my love and grief! Oh ! could I throw 
Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low. 
And thrilling voice of song ! when he came 

nigh. 
To send the passion of its melody 
Through his pierced bosom — on its tones to beat 
My life's deep feeling, as the southern air 
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath,— to rise, to swell, 
To sink away in accents of farewell, 
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 
Surely my parted spirit yet might know, 
If love be strong as death ! 

m. 

Now fair thou art, 
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 
It cannot make thee! Oh! I might have 
given 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought, 

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, 
9 



(98) 

Things not of such as die ! But I have been 
Too much alone ; a heart whereon to lean, 
With all these deep affections, that o'erflow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below ; 
An eye to be my star, a voice to bring 
Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe oi 

spring, 
These are denied me — dreamt of still in vain, — 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain, 
Are ever but some wild and fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dii'ge-like echoes. 

IV. 

Yet the world will see 
Little of this, my parting work, in thee, 

Thou shalt have fame ! Oh, mockery ! give 
the reed 
From storms a shelter, — give the drooping vine 
Something round which its tendrils may en- 
twine, — 
Give the parch 'd flower a rain drop, and the 
meed 
Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless 

fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for my name 
Th' abiding-place it ask'd ! Yet how my heart, 
In its own fairy world of song and art. 
Once beat for praise ! — Are those high longings 

o'er ! 
That which I have been can I be no more ? — 
Never, oh ! never more ; though still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 



(99) 

And tlioiigh the music, whose rich breathings fill 
Thine air Avith soul, be wandering past me still, 
And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams, 
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet dreams ; 
Never, oh ! rLever more ! where'er I move, 
The shadow of this broken-hearted love 
Is on me and around ! Too well they know, 

Whose life is all within, too soon and well, 
When there the blight hath settled ; — but I go 

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell ; 
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain, 
The inward burning of those words — in vain," 

Sear'd on the heart — I go. 'Twill soon be 
past. 
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven, 

And thou, oh ! thou on Avhom my spirit cast 
Unvalued wealth, — who know'st not what was 

given 
In that devotedness, — the sad, and deep. 
And unrepaid — farewell ! If I could weep 
Once, only once, beloved one ! on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest ! 
But that were happiness, and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be 
So richly blest ! With thee to watch the sky, 
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh ; 
With thee to listen, while the tones of song 
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along, 
To listen silently ; — with thee to gaze 
On forms, the deified of olden days. 
This had been joy enough ; and hoiu* by hour. 
From its glad well-springs drinking life and 
power. 



(100) 

How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame 
A glory for thy brow ! — Dreams, dreams ! — 
the fire 
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name- 
As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre 
When its full chords are hush'd — awhile to live, 
And one day haply in thy heart revive 
Sad thoughts of me : — I leave it, with a sound, 
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound, 
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell, — 
Say proudly yet — '' 'Twas hers who LoyED me 

WELL ! " 



ELYSIUM. 

Fair wert thou in the dreams 
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers 
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, 

Where, as they pass'd, bright hours 
Left no vain sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 

♦ 

Fair wert thou with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast 
From purple sides ne'er deep'ning into night, 
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains ! — ^but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay 



-il\ 



(101) 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A. swell of deep jEolian sound went by, 
From fountahi-voices m their secret glades. 
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply 

To summer's breezy sigh, 
And young leaves trembling to the wiivds light 

breath. 
Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of 
death ! 

And the transparent sky 
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreams and yearnings vain, 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From the bewild'ring music of the earth. 

And who, with silent tread. 
Moved o'er the plains of asphodel ? 
Call'd from the dim procession of the dead. 
Who, 'midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers 
might dwell. 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale ? 

They of the sword, whose praise, [round ! 
Witn the bright wine at nations' feasts, went 
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays 
Forth on the w^inds had sent their mighty sound, 

And in all regions found 
9* 



(102) 

Their echoes 'midst the mountains ! — and become 
In man's deep heart as voices of his home ! 

They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied — 
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths 

had sought 
The soul's fair birth-place — ^but without a guide ! 

Sages and seers, who died, 
And left the world their high mysterious dreams, 
Born 'midst the olive woods, by Grecian streams. 

But the most loved are they 
Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice^ 
In regal halls ! — the shades o'erhang their way. 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ; till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And these — of whose abode, 
'Midst her green valleys earth retain'd no trace. 
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, 

A dim and vacant place [for these, 

In some sweet home ; — thou hast no wreaths 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees ! 

The peasant at his door 
Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread, 
And songs on every wind ! From thy bright shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head — 

Thou wert for nobler dead ! 



(103) 

He heard the bounding steps which round hiiu 

fell, 
And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell ! 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of 

years, 
As embers in a bm-ial-urn compress'd ; 

He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd " Liberty . " 

Calm, on its leaf strewn bier, 
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, 
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before the mother lay, 

E'en so to pass away. 
With its bright smile !— Elysium ! what weit 

thou 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumb'rer's 

brow? 

Thou hadst no home, green land ! 
For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
With life's fresh flowers just opening in its 

hand, 
And ail the lovely thoughts and dreams un- 
known 
Which, in its clear eye, shone 
Like spring's first wakening ! but that light vvaa 

past — 
Where went the dew drop swept before the blast ' 



(104) 

Not where thy soft winds play'd, 
N'ot where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! 
Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Yisions, 

fade! 
From Ihee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep. 

And bade man cease to weep ! 
Fade, with the amaranth plain the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love. 



THE DEAXH OF CONRADIN. 

No cloud to dim the splendor of the day 
Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay. 
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore 
With every tint that charm 'd the great of yore ; 
Th' imperial ones of earth — who proudly bade 
Their marble domes e'en Ocean's realm invade. 

That race is gone — but glorious Nature here 
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, 
And bids these regions of the suns display 
Bright hues, surviving empires pass'd away. 

The beam of Heaven expands — its kindling 
smile 
Rei'aals each charm of many a fairy isle, 
\Vh :se image floats, in softer coloring drest, 
With all its rocks and vines, on Ocean's breasV 
Misenum's cape hath sought the vivid ray, 
On Roman streamers there no more to play ; 
Still, as of old, unalterably bright, 
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height, 



(105) 

With all Italia's sunshine to illume 
The ilex canopy of Virgil's tomb. 
Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread 
Their gay luxmiance o'er the mighty dead ; 
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 
While, far oh high, Vesuvius rears his peak, 
Purrow'd and dark with many a lava streak. 

Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse ! 
Rich with all Nature's and all fiction's hues ; 
Who shall explore your regions, and declare 
The poet err'd to paint Elysium there ? 
Call up his spirit, wanderer ! bid him guide 
Thy steps, those siren-haunted seas beside ; 
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, 
And spells more potent shall pervade the air. 
What though his dust be scatter'd, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn. 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around. 
Hovering in beauty o'er th' enchanted ground : 
His lays are murmur'd in each breeze that roves 
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange groves: 
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea 
The soul, the genius of Parthenope ; 
Shedding o'er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill 
The purple radiance of Elysium still. 

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky 
Have witness'd many a dark reality. 
Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath 

borne 
The sighs of exiles never to return. 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft affection's funeral wail, 



(106) 

Mourning for buried heroes — ^while to her 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre. 
And there of old the dread mysterious moan 
Swell'd from strange voices of no mortal tone ; 
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note 
Was heard, at midnight, o'er the hills to float 
Around the spot where Agrippina died. 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. 

Past are those ages — yet another crime, 
Another woe, must stain th' Elysicin clime. 
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore — 
It must be crimson'd ere the day is o'er ! 
There is a throne in regal pomp array'd, — 
A scene of death from thence must be surveyed. 
Mark'd ye the rushing throngs ? — each mien is 

pale. 
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale ; 
But the deep workings of th' indignant breast, 
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress'd ; 
The burning tear awhile must check its course, 
Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force ; 
For tyranny is near, and will not brook 
Aught but submission in each guarded look. 

Girt with his fierce Provencals, and with mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene. 
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance 
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, 
IJehold the conqueror ! — ^vainly in his face. 
Of gentler feelmg hope would seek a trace • 
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent 
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament ; 
And pleading Mercy, in the sternness there. 
May read at once her sentence — to despair 



..»^r»i^— ^1 



( 107 ) 

But thou, fair boy ! the beautiful, the brave, 
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, 
While all is yet around thee which can give 
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live ; 
Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eyCj 
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die 
Hath grown too full for utterance — Can it be ? 
And is this pomp of death prepared for thee ? 
Yoimg, royal Conradin ! who shouldst have 

known 
Of life as yet the sunny side alone ! 
Oh ! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom 
Of youth, array'd so richly for the tomb, 
Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, 
Emotions tyranny may ne'er control ? 
Bright victim ! to Ambition's altar led, 
Crown'd with all flowers that heaven on earth 

can shed, 
Who, from th' oppressor towering in his pride, 
May hope for mercy — if to thee denied ? 
There is dead silence on the breathless throng, 
Dead silence all the peopled shore along, 
As on the captive moves — the only sound, 
To break that calm so fearfully profound, 
The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, 
Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave ; 
While on that shore, his own fair heritage. 
The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage 
Is passing to his fate : the eyes are dim 
Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, 

on him. 
He mounts the scaff'old — doth his footstep fail ? 
Doth his lip quiver ? doth his cheek turn pale ? 



( 108 ) 

Oh ! it may be forgiven him if a thought 
Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, 
To all the hopes that promised glory's meed, 
And all th' affections that with him shall bleed ! 
If, in his life's young day spring, while the rose 
Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, 
One human fear convulse his parting breath, 
And shrink from all the bitterness of death ! 

But no ! the spirit of his royal race 
Sits brightly on his brow — that youthful face 
Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye 
Is eloquent with injured majesty. 
He kneels — ^but not to man — ^his heart shall 

own 
Such deep submission to his God alone ! 
And who can tell with what sustaining power 
That God may visit him in fate's dread hour? 
How still the voice, which answers every moan. 
May speak of hope — ^when hope on earth is 
gone ? 

That solemn pause is o'er — the youth hath 
given 
One glance of parting love to earth and heaven . 
The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky, 
Life all around him glows — and he must die ! 
Yet 'midst his people, undismay'd, he throws 
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes ; 
Vengeance, that, like their own volcano's fire. 
May sleep suppress'd a while — ^but not expire. 
One softer image rises o'er his breast, 
One fond regret, and all shall be at rest ! 
" Alas, for thee, my mother ! who shall bear 
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, 



( 109 ) 

When thy lost child is gone ? " — ^that thouglit 

can thrill 
His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. 
The lifted axe is glittering in the sun — 
It falls — the race of Conradin is run ! 
Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to 

stain, 
A voice shall cry to heaven — and not in vain ! 
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, 
In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 
Charles of Anjou ! but that dread voice shall be 
A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee ! 

The scene of death is closed — the throngs 
depart, 
A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. 
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes. 
High-minded boy ! may grace thine obsequies. 
O, vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, 
Unsanctified, is bathed by Ocean's wave ; 
Mark'd by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, 
Unhonor'd, unadorn'd — but unforgot ; 
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts sliaH 

live. 
Now mutely suffering — never to forgive ! 

The sunset fades from purple heavens away— 
A bark hath anchor'd in th' unruffled bay ; 
Thence on the beach descends a female form, 
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm : 
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, 
And her soft eyes a chasten'd heart bespeak, 
Inured to woes — yet what were all the past ! 
She sunk not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, 
10 



- : 



(110) 

While one bright hope remained — ^who new shall 

tell 
Th' uncrown'd, the widow'd, how her loved one 

fell ? 
To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, 
The mother came — and she hath found his grave * 
And by that grave, transfix'd in speechless grief, 
Whose death-like trance denies a tear's relief. 
Awhile she kneels — ^till roused at length to know 
To feel the might, the fulness of her woe. 
On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 
A mother's cry is heard — "My Conradin! my 

child ! " 



THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT 
FOR HIS BROTHER. 

There were light sounds of revelling in the 

vanquish'd city's halls. 
As by night the feast of victory was held within 

its walls ; 
And the conquerors filled the wine cup high, 

after years of bright blood shed ; 
But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the 

triumph, wail'd the dead. 

He look'd down from the fortress won on the 

tents and towers below, 
The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets, — and a 

gloom came o'er his brow : 



(Ill) 

The voice of thousands floated up, with the 

horn and cymbal's tone ; 
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more 

utterly alone. 

And he cTried, '^ Thou art mine, fair city ! thou 

city of the sea ! 
But, oh ! what portion of delight is mine at last 

in thee ? 
-—I am lonely midst thy palaces, while the glad 

waves past them roll. 
And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is 

mournful to my soul. 

*' My brother ! oh ! my brother ! thou art gone, — 

the true and brave, 
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon 

thy grave. 
There are many round my throne to stand, and 

to march where I lead on ; 
There was one to love me in the world, — ^my 

brother ! thou art gone ! 



"In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean- 
tempest's wrath, 

We stood together side by side ; one hope was 
ours, — one path ; 

Thou hast wrapt me in the soldier's cloak, thou 
hast fenced me with thy breast ; 

Thou hast watch 'd beside my couch of pam - 
oh ! bravest heart, and best ! 



(112) 

< ] see the festive lights around ; — o'er a dull 

sad world they shine ; 
I hear the voice of victory — ^my Pedro ! where 

is thine ? 
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit 

found reply ! — 
O brother ! I have bought too dear this hollow 

pageantry ! 

" 1 have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my 

glory and my sway, 
And chiefs to lead them fearlessly ; — ^my friend 

hath pass'd away ! 
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my 

heart may thirst in vain. 
And the face that was as light as mine — ^it cannot 

come again ! 

" I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the 

offering for a crown ; 
With love, which earth bestows not twice, I 

have purchased cold renown ; 
How often will my weary heart 'midst the 

sounds of triumph die. 
When I think of thee, my brother ! thou flowei 

of chivalry ! 

" 1 am lonely — I am lonely ! this rest is even as 

death ! 
Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the 

battle-trumpet's breath ; 



r 



(113) 

Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal 

banner wave — 
But where art thou, my brother ? wheie ? — in 

thy low and early grave ! " 

And louder swelled the songs of joy through 

that victorious night. 
And faster flow'd the red wine forth, by the 

stars' and torches' light ; 
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard 

the conqueror's moan — 
" My brother ! oh ! my brother ! best and 

bravest ! thou art gone ! " 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 

The stately homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand ! 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 

O'er all the pleasant land. 
The deer across their greensward bound. 

Through shade and sunny gleam. 
And the swan glides past them with the soimf.l 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night. 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet in the ruddy light ! 
10 



(lU) 

There ■woman's voice flows forth in song, 

Or childhood's tale is told, 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath-hours 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells chime 

Floats through their woods at morn ; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The cottage homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet-fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook of leaves. 
And fearless there the lowly sleep. 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall, 
May hearts of native proof be rear'd 

To guard each hallow'd wall ! 
And green for ever be the groves, 

And bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God ! 



(115) 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 

O Spirit-Land ! thou land of dreams ! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife, — 
A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, 
When the wavy shadows float by, and part : 
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange. 
Glimmering £md mingling in ceaseless change. 

Thou art like a city of the past, 
With its gorgeous halls in fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world's to day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth^ 
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth, — 
All the sere flowers of our days gone by, 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes ! thou art like those dim sea caves, 

A realm of treasures, a realm of graves ! 

And the shapes through thy mysteries thai 

come and go. 
Are of beauty and terror, of power and woe. 

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep ! 
Thou art all one world of aflections deep, — 



(116) 

And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye, 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 

And thy bowers are fair — e'en as Eden fair ; 
All the beloved of my soul are there ! 
The forms of my spirit most pines to see, 
The eyes, whose love hath been life to me : 

They are there, — ^and each blessed voice I hear.. 
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear ; 
But under-tones are in each, that say, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! '* 

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow, 

I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint 

through the lay : 
*' It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

I sit by the hearth of my early days ; 
All the home-faces are met by the blaze, — 
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say 
"It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone, 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
Oh ! a haunted heart is a weight to bear, — 
Bright faces, kind voices ! where are ye, where ? 

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams. 
The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 
Make not my spirit within me burn 
For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return ! 



(117) 

Call out from the future thy visions bright, 
From the world o'er the grave, take thy solemn 

light, 
And oh ! with the loved, whom no more I see, 
Show me my home, as it yet may be ! 

As it yet may be in some purer sphere, 
No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear ; 
So my soul may bear on, through the long, long 

day. 
Till I go where the beautiful melts not away ! 



THE CHILDE'S DESTINY. 

No mistress of the hidden skill, 

No wizard gaunt and grim, 
Went up by night to heath or hill, 

To read the stars for him ; 
The merriest girl in all the land 

Of vine-encircled France 
Bestow 'd upon his brow and hand 

Her philosophic glance : 
'' I bind thee with a spell," said she, 

'' I sign thee with a sign ; 
No woman's love shall light on thee, 

No woman's heart be thine ! 

*' And trust me, 'tis not that thy cheek 

Is colorless and cold, 
Nor that thine eye is slow to speak 

What only eyes have told ; 



( 118 ) 

Por many a cheek of paler white 

Hath blush'd with passion's kiss : 
ind many an eye of lesser light 

Hath caught its fire from bliss ; 
Yet while the rivers seek the sea, 

And while the young stars shine, 
No woman's love shall light on thee, 

No woman's heart be thine ! 

'' And 'tis not that thy spirit, awed 

By beauty's numbing spell. 
Shrinks from the force or from the fraud 

Which beauty Te^es so well ; 
For thou hast learn'd to watch and wake, 

And swear by earth and sky ; 
And thou art ever bold to take 

What we must still deny ; 
£ cannot tell : the charm was wrought 

By other threads than mine. 
The lips are lightly begg'd or bought, 

The heart may not be thine ! 

' Yet thine the brightest smile shall be 

That ever beauty wore, 
And confidence from two or three. 

And compliments from more ; 
Ind one shall give, perchance hath given, 

What only is not love, — 
Friendship, oh ! such as saints in heaven 

Rain on us from above. 
If she shall meet thee in the bower, 

Or name thee in the shrine, 
Oh ! wear the ring, and guard the flower, > 

Her heart may not be thine ! 



-'^ 



(119) 

" Go, set thy boat before the blast, 

Thy breast before the gun, — 
The haven shall be reach'd at last, 

The battle shall be won ; 
Or muse upon thy country's laws. 

Or strike thy country's lute. 
And patriot hands shall sound applause. 

And lovely lips be mute : 
Go, dig the diamond from the wave, 

The treasme from the mine, 
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave,- 

No woman's heart is thine ! 

" I charm thee from the agony 

Which others feel or feign ; 
From anger, and from jealously, 

From doubt, and from disdain ; 
I bid thee wear the scorn of years 

Upon the cheek of youth. 
And curl the lip at passion's tears. 

And shake the head at truth ; 
While there is bliss in revelry, 

Forgetfulness in wine. 
Be thou from woman's love as free 

As woman is from thine ! " 



(120) 



CCEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF 
HIS FATHER. 

ToBCHES were blazing clear, 

Hymns pealing deep and slow, 
Where a king lay stately on his bier 

In the church of Fontevraud. 
Banners of battle o'er him hung. 

And warriors slept beneath, 
And light, as noon's broad light was flung 

On the settled face of death. 

On the settled face of death 

A strong and ruddy glare. 
Though dimm'd at times by the censer's brealh| 

Yet it fell still brightest there : 
As if each deeply furrow'd trace 

Of earthly years to show, — 
Alas ! that sceptred mortal's race 

Had surely closed in woe ! 

The marble floor was swept 

By many a long dark stole. 
As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, 

Sang mass for the parted soul : 
And solemn were the strains they pour'd 

Through the stillness of the night. 
With the cross above, and the crown and sword, 

And the silent king in sight. 



<?= 



(121) 

There was heard a heavy clang, 

As of steel-girt men the tread, 
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 

With a sounding thrill of dread ; 
And the holy chant was hush'd awhile,, 

As, by the torch's flame, 
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle, 

With a mail-clad leader came. 

He came with haughty look. 

An eagle-glajice and clear ; 
But his proud heart through its breastplate shook, 

When he stood beside the bier ! 
He stood there still with a drooping brow, 

And clasped hands o'er it raised j — 
For his father lay before him low, 

It was Coeur de Lion gazed ! 

And silently he strove 

With the workings of his breast ; 
But there's more in late repentant love 

Than steel may keep suppress'd ! 
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rairx — 

Men held their breath in awe, 
For his face was seen by his warrior train, 

And he reck'd not that they saw. 

He look'd upon the dead. 

And sorrow seem'd to lie, 

A. \reight of sorrow, even like lead, 

Pale on the fast-shut eye. 

11 



{ 122 ) 

He stoop'd — and kiss'd the frozen cheek 
And the heavy hand of clay 

Till bursting words — ^yet all too weak— 
Gave his soul's passion way. 

" Oh, father ! is it vain, 

This late remorse and deep r 
Speak to me, father ! once again, 

I weep — ^behold, I weep ! 
AJas ! my guilty pride and ire ! 

Were but this work undor.e 
I would give England's crown, my sire f 

To hear thee bless thy son. 

"Speak to me! mighty grief 

Ere now the dust hath stirr'd ! 
Hear me, but hear me ! — ^father, chief, 

My king ! I must be heard ! — 
Hush'd, hush'd — ^how is it that I call, 

And that thou answerest not ? 
When was it thus, woe, woe for all 

The love my soul forgot ! 

" Thy silver hairs I see, 

So still, so sadly bright ? 
And father, father ! but for me. 

They had not been so white ? 
I bore thee down, high heart ! at last, 

No longer could'st thou strive ;— 
Oh ! for one moment of the past, 

To kneel and say — ' forgive ! ' 

" Thou wert the noblest king, 
On royal throne ere seen ; 



(123) 

And thou didst wear in knightly ring 

Of all, the stateliest mien ; 
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, 

In war, the bravest heart — 
Oh ! ever the renown 'd and loved 

Thou wert — and there thou art ! 

" Thou that my boyhood's guide 

Didst take fond joy to be ! — 
The times I've sported at thy side, 

And climb'd thy parent knee ! 
And there before the blessed shrine, 

My sire ! I see thee lie, — 
How will that sad still face of thine 

Look on me till I die ! " 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 
FATHERS. 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast. 

And the woods, against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches toss'd ; 

And the heavy night hung dsciC 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 



(124) 

Not as the conqueror comeSj 

They, the true-hearted, came, 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear, — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard and the sea ! 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean-eagle soar'd 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd^ 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim-band — 
Why had they come to wither there 

Away from their childhood's land : 

There was woman's fearless eye. 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?- 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ' 



(125) 

Aye, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ! 

They have left unstain'd what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God ! 



THE VOICE OF SPRING. 

I COME, I come ! ye have called me long, 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song ! 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of the violet's bii'th, 
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves, opening £is I pass. 

I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut 

flowers 
By thousands have biust from the forest-bowers, 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ; — 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy north, 
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 
The fisher is out on the sunny sea. 
And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastiu:es free. 
And the pme has a fringe of softer green. 
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath 
been. 

11* 



( 126 ) 

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing 

sigh, 
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky ; 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild notes by the Iceland lakes, 
When the dark fir-branch into verdure break;s. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the 

chain, 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs. 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, 
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay. 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men. 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ! 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth. 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth . 
Their light stems thrill to the wild- wood strains, 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

But ye ! — ye are changed since ye met me last ! 
There is something bright from your feature? 
pass'd ! 



(12T) ^ 

There is that come over your brow and. eye, 
Which speaks of a world where the flowers 

must die ! 
— Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet — 
Oh ! what have you look'd on since last we met ? 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not 

here 
All whom I saw in th^3 vanish'd year ! 
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets 

bright, 
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light, 
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter 

lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay ! 

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's 
head, 

As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 

There were voices that rung through the sap- 
phire sky, 

And had not a sound of mortality ! 

Are they gone ? is their mirth from the moun- 
tains pass'd ? — 

Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last 

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now. 
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace — 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race. 
With their laughhig eyes and their festal crown, 
They are gone from amongst you in silence 
down ! 



( 128 ) 

They are gone from amongst you,, the young 

and fair, 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! — 
But I know of a land where there falls no blight, 
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! 
Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn 

may dwell, 
I tarry no longer — ^farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne, 
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 
For me, I depart to a brighter shore, 
Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more ; 
[ go where the loved who have left you dwell, 
Ajid the flowers are not Death's — fare ye well 
farewell ! 



ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. 

Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 
On thy seven hills of yore 

Thou satt'st a queen. 

Thou hadst thy triumphs then 

Purpling the street. 
Leaders and sceptred men 

Bow'd at thy feet. 



(129) 

They that thy mantle wore, 

As gods were seen — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 

Rome ! thine imperial brow 

Never shall rise : 
What hast thou left thee now ?-— 

Thou hast thy skies ! 

Blue, deeply blue, they are, 

Gloriously bright ! 
Yelling thy wastes afar 

With color'd Hght. 

Thou hast the sunset's glow, 

Rome, for thy dower, 
Flushing tall cypress bough. 

Temple and tower ! 

And all sweet sounds are thine, 

Lovely to hear, 
While night o'er tomb and shrine, 

Rests darkly clear. 

Many a solemn hymn. 

By starlight sung, 
Sweeps through the arches dim, 

Thy wrecks among. 

Many a flute's low swell, 

On thy soft air 
Lingers, and loves to dwell 

With summer there. 



(130) 

Thou hast the south's rich gift 

Of sudden song — 
A charmed fountain, swift, 

Joyous, and strong. 

Thou hast fair forms that move 

With queenly tread ; 
Thou hast proud fanes above 

Thy mighty dead. 

Vet wears thy Tiber's shore 

A mournful mien : — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more. 

As thou hast been ! 



DIRGE. 

Where shall we make her grave ? 
— Oh ! where the wild flowers wav« 

In the free air ! 
Where shower and singing bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard— 

There — ^lay her there ! 

Harsh was the world to her— 
Now may sleep minister 

Balm for each ill : 
Low on sweet nature's breast, 
Let the meek heart find rest 

Deep, deep and still ! 



(131) 

Murmur, glad waters, by ! 
Faint gales, with happy sigh, 

Come wandering o'er 
That green and mossy bed, 
Where, on a gentle head, 

Storms beat no more ! 

What though for her in vain 
Falls now the bright spring rahi, 

Plays the soft wind ? 
Yet still, from where she lies, 
Should blessed breathings rise 

Gracious and kind. 

Therefore, let song and dew 
Thence, in the heart renew 

Life's vernal glow ! 
And o'er that holy earth 
Scents of the violet's birth 

Still come and go ! 

Oh ! then where wild flowers wave, 
Make ye her mossy grave 

In the free air ! 
Where shower and singing bird 
'Mid5t the young leaves are heard- 

There, lay her there ! 



(132) 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. 

There was music on the midnight ; — 

From a royal fane it roll'd, 
And a mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly tolPd. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hush'd the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high, 

The lonely bell, of death. 

There was hurrying through the midnight — 

A sound of many feet : 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness. 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter, grew their tread, 

As it near'd the minster-gate. 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glow'd the strong red radiance. 

In the centre of the nave. 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave ; 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom, 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold 

Like a shadow of the tomb 



'.rtyi 



{ 133 ) 

And within that rich pavilion. 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewel'd robes fell strangely still— 

The drapery on her breast 
Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill, 
So stone-like was its rest ! 

But a peal of lordly music 

Shook e'en the dust below, 
When the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound, 

And from the encircling band 
Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound. 
With homage to her hand. 

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each mortal frame, 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader came ? 
Was not the settled aspect fair? 

Did not a queenly grace. 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale still face ? 

Death ! Death ! canst thou be lovely 

Unto the eye of Life ? 
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife ? 
12 



*7= 



(134) 

-It was a strange and fearful sight, 
The crown upon that head, 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, 
All gather'd round the Dead ! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale. 
And white lips rigidly compress'd, 

Lest the strong heart should fail : 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye. 

Watching the homage done. 
By the land's flower and chivalry, 

To her, his martyr'd one. 

But on the face he look'd not, 

Which once his star had been ; 
To every form his glance was turn'd, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something won from the grave's embrace 

Of her beauty still was there. 
Its hues were all of that shadowy place 

It w£is not for him to bear. 

Alas ! the crown, the sceptre. 

The treasures of the earth. 
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts. 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed : — ^bear back the Dead 

Unto the chamber deep ! 
Lay down again the royal head, 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 



(135) 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow, 
As the mourners through the sounding aisle 

In dark procession go ; 
And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 

And all the rich array, 
Are borne to the house of silence down, 

With her, that queen of clay ! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train, — 
But his face was wrapt in his folding robe, 

When they lower'd the dust again. 
'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above, 

Hymns die, and steps depart : 
Who call'd thee strong as death, O Love ? 

Mightier thou wast and art. 



TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE. 

They haunt me still — those calm, pure, ho'y 
eyes : 
Their piercing sweetness wanders through 
my dreams : 
1'he soul of music that within them lies, 

Comes o'er my soul in soft and suiden gleams 
Life — spirit-life — immortal and divine — 
Is there — and yet how dark a death was thine ! 



(136) 

Could it — oh ! could it be — ^meek child of song ? 

The might of gentleness on that fair brow — 
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong ? 

Bore it no talisman to ward the blow ? 
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast, 
Might brave their strife — a flute-note hush the 
blast ? 

Are there not deep sad oracles to read 

In the clear stillness of that radiant face ? 

Yes, even like thee must gifted spirits bleed. 
Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no 
place ! 

Bright exiled birds that visit aliiin skies, 

Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies. 

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast, 

Whereon their trembling plumage might 

repose, 

And their free song-notes, from that happy nest, 

Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows ; 

Vain dream ! the love whose precious balms 

might save 
Still, still denied — they struggle to the grave. 

Yet my heart shall not sink ! — another doom, 
Victim ! hath set its promise in thine eye ; 

A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb, 
Bright earnest of a nobler destiny ; 

Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere, 

To the deep souls that find no echo here 



-H 



^137) 



JOAN OF ARC, IN RHEIMS. 

That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 
Wlien peal on peal of mighty music roll'd 
Forth from her throng'd cathedral ; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound, 
Chain'd to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listen'd at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within ? — within, the light 
Through the rich gloom of pictured windows 

flowing, 
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight. 
The chivalry of France, their proud heads 

bowing 
In martial vassalage ! — while 'midst that ring. 
And shadow'd by the ancestral tombs, a king ^ 
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the 

hymn 
Swell'd out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim 
As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
And unapproach'd, beside the altar-stone, 
With the white banner, forth like smishine 

streaming, 
And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance 

gleaming,— 
Silent and radiant stood? — the helm was raisou, 
And the fair face reveal'd that upward gazed 
12* 



( 138 ) 

Intensely worshipping : — a still, clear face 
Youthful, but brightly solemn ! — Woman's cheek 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek 

Yet glorified with inspiration's trace 
On its pure paleness ; while, enthroned above, 
The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love, 
Seem'd bending o'er her votaress. — That slight 

form ! 
Was that the leader through the battle storm ? 
Had the soft light in that adoring eye, 
Guided the warrior where the swords flash'd 

high? 
'Twas so, even so ! — and thou, the shepherd's 

child 
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! 
Never before, and never since that hour, 
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power, 
Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand, 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land ; 
And beautiful with joy and with renown, 
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, 
Ransom'd for France by thee ! 

The rites are done. 
Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken, 
And bid the echoes of the tombs awaken. 

And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicing 
sun 
May give thee welcome from thine own blue 
skies, 

Daughter of victory ! — a triumphant strain, 
A. proud rich stream of warlike melodies, 

Gush'd through the portals of the antique fane 



(139) 

And forth she came.— Then rose a nation's sound \ 
Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound, 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
Man gives to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power ? — far deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells 
Whence happiness flow'd forth !— the shouts that 

fill'd 
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd 
One moment ; and in that brief pause, the tone, 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown. 
Sank on the bright maid's heart.— '^Joanne ! "- 
who spoke 
Like those whose childhood with her child- 
hood grew 
Under one roof ?—" Joanne ! "—that murmur 

broke 
With sounds of weeping forth ! — She turn'd— 

she knew 
Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there, 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair, 
The stately shepherd ; and the youth, whose joy 
From his dark eye flash'd proudly ; and the boy, 
The youngest-born, that ever loved her best ; 
'' Father ! and ye, my brothers ! "—On the 

breast 
Of that grey sire she sank — and swiftly back, 
Ev'n in an instant, to their native track 
Her free thoughts flow'd.— She saw the pomp 

no more — 
The plumes, the banners :— to her cabin door, 
And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade, ^ 
Where her young sisters by her side had play d. 



(140) 

Ani to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 

Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 

Her spirit turn'd. — The very wood-note, sung 

In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beach leaves hung, 

Was in her heart ; a music heard and felt. 
Winning her back to nature. — She unbound 

The helm of many battles from her head. 
And, with her bright locks bow'd to sweep she 
ground. 

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said, — 
" Bless me, my father, bless me ! and with thee, 
To the still cabin and the beechen tree, 
Let me retm-n ! " 

Oh ! never did thine eye 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne ! — too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name ; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price, 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home with all its loves, doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's orow. 



THE CRUSADERS' WAR SONG. 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high, 

Lead on to Salem's towers ! 
Who would not deem it bliss to die, 

Slain in a cause like ours ? 
The brave who sleep in soil of thine. 
Die not entomb'd. but shrined. O Palestine i 



(141) 

Souls of the slain in holy wax ! 

Look from your sainted rest. 
Tell us ye rose in Glory's car, 

To mingle with the blest ; 
Tell us how short the death-pang's power, 
How bright the joys of your immortal bo^\'e^ 

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train ! 

Pour forth your loftiest lays ; 
Each heart shall echo to the strain 

Breath'd in the warrior's praise. 
Bid every string triumphant swell 
Th' inspiring sounds that heroes love so w -^. 

Salem ! amidst the fiercest hour, 

The wildest rage of fight, 
Thy name shall lend our falchions power, 

And nerve our hearts with might, 
Envied be those for thee that fall, 
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. 

For them no need that sculptured tom^ 

Should chronicle their fame. 
Or pyramid record their doom. 

Or deathless verse their name ; 
It is enough that dust of thine 
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Paiesiine 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high 

For combat's glorious hour ; 
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly 

On Salem's loftiest tower ! 
We burn to mingle in the strife, 
Where but to die ensures eternal life. 



,U2) 



THE YAUDOIS' WIFE. 

Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved ! 

Thy look is in my heart, 
Thy bosom is my resting-place, 

And yet I must depart. 
Earth on my soul is strong — too strong— 

Too precious is its chain, 
All woven of thy love, dear friend, 

Yet vain — though mighty — ^vain ! 

Thou seest mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 

Thou seest my life-blood flow.— • 
Bow to the chastener silently, 

And calmly let me go ! 
A little while between our hearts 

The shadowy gulf must lie. 
Yet have we for their communing 

Still, still Eternity ! 

Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek, 

My spirit they detain ; 
I know that from thine agony 

Is wrung that burning rain. 
Best, kindest, weep not ; — make the pang^ 

The bitter conflict, less — 
Oh ! sad it is, and yet a joy. 

To fell thy love's excess I 



(143) 

But calm thee ! Let the thought of death 

A solemn peace restore ! 
The voice that must be silent soon, 

Would speak to thee once more, 
That thou may'st bear its blessings on 

Through yeairs of after life — 
A token of consoling love, 

Even from this hour of strife. 



I bless thee for the noble heart, 

The tender, and the true, 
Where mine hath found the happiest rest 

That e'er fond woman's knew ; 
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide, 

For my own, my treasiu-ed share, 
In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 

In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 

I bless th^e for the kind looks and words 

Shower'd on my path like dew, 
For all the love in those deep eyes 

A gladness ever new ! 
For the voice which ne'er to mine replied 

But in kindly tones of cheer ; 
For every spring of happiness 

My soul hath tasted here ! 

1 bless thee for the last rich boon 

Won from affection tried. 
The right to gaze on death with thee, 

To perish by thy side ! 



(144) 

And yet more for the glorious hope 
Even to these moments given- — 

Did not thy spirit ever lift 

The trust of mine to HeaveD ? 



Now be thou strong ? Oh ! knew we not 

Our path must lead to this ? 
A shadow and a trembling still 

Were mingled with our bliss ! 
We plighted our young hearts wher rtorms 

Were dark upon the sky, 
In full, deep knowledge of their task 

To suffer and to die ! 



Be strong ! I leave the living voice 

Of this, my martyr'd blood, 
With the thousand echoes of the hills, 

With the torrent's foaming flood, — » 
A spirit 'midst the caves to dwell, 

A token on the air. 
To rouse the valiant from repose, 

The fainting from despair. 

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ! 

Aye, joyously, endure ; 
Our mountains must be altars yet, 

Inviolate and pure ; 
There must our God be worshipp'd still 

With the worship of the free — 
Farewell ! there's but one pang in death, 

One only, — Cleaving thee ! 



'f 



r^ 



(145) 



THE SWITZER'S WIFE. 

It was the time when children bound to mee*. 

Their father's homeward step from field or hillj 
And when the herd's retm'ning bells are sweet 

In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still. 
And the last note of that wild horn swells by. 
Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home, 
Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour^ 

Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam, 
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung 
bower ; 

But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose, 

Then first look'd mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden tree, 

That sent its lulling whispers through his door. 

Even as man sits whose heart alone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no more 

Th' accustom'd joy in all which evening brings, 

Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hush'd before him, — sad, yet mild 

In her beseeching mien ; — he mark'd it not. 
The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child 
Rang from the greensward round the shelter'd 
spot, 

13 



(146) 

But seem'd unheard ; until at last the boy 
Raised from his heaped-up flowers a glance of jOy. 

And met his father's face : but then a change 
Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, 

And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee 

So often climb 'd, and lift his loving eyes 

That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. 

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook , 

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, 
Through tears half quivering, o'er him bent 
and said, 
^* What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart 

its prey. 
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love 
away? 

" It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 

Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, 
Missing the smile from thine ? Oh ! cheer thee ! 
bend 
To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en 
now ! 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried affection in thy secret care." 

He look'd up into that sweet earnest face. 
But sternly, mournfully : not yet the band 

Was loosened from his soul ; its inmost place 
Not yet unveil'd by 'ove's o'ermastering hand. 



(147) 

*' Speak low ! " he cried, aiid pointed Avhere on 

high 
The white Alps glitter'd through the solemn 

sky : 

" We must speak low amidst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents ; for the days arc come 

When tyranny lies crouch'd by forest rills, 
And meets the shepherd in his mountain home. 

Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear, 

Keep silence by the hearth ! its foes are near. 

" The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been 

Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 
Under my household tree, if not serene, 

Yet with the faces best beloved in sight : 
To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee— - 
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see ? " 

The bright blood left that youthful mother's 
cheek * 

Back on the linden stem she lean'd her form. 
And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak, 

Like a frail harpstring, shaken by the storm. 
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass'd, 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever through her home had moved 
With her meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile 

Of woman, calmly loving and beloved, 
And timid in her happiness the while, 

Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour, 

Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. 



(148) 

Aye, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, 
And took her fair child to her holy breast, 

And lifted her soft voice, that gathei'd might 
As it found language : — "Are we thus oppress'd ' 

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod. 

And man must arm, and woman call on God ! 

*'I know what thou wouldst do, — and be i*. 

done ! 
Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me. 
Trust me to Heaven, my husband! — this, thy 

son, 
The babe whom I have borne thee, must be 

free ! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength — if aught be strong on 

earth. 

" Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears ; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills ! thy stately head, 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued, — 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

" (jro forth beside the waters, and along 

The chamois paths, and through the forests go ; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets 
glow 

God shall be with thee, my beloved ! — Away ! 

Bless but thy child, and leave me,- -I can pray ! ' 



(149) 

He sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking 
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air ; 
He caught her to his breast, while proud teais 
breaking 
From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided 
hair, — 
And '' Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 
" That man for thee should gii'd himself to die. 

*' My bride, my wife, the mother of my child ' 
Now shall thy name be armor to my heart ; 

And this our land, by chains no more defiled, - 
Be taught of thee to choose the better part ! 

I go — thy spii'it on my words shall dwell. 

Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps — Farewell ' " 

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake. 

In the clear starlight : he, the strength to 
rouse 
Of the free hills ; she, thoughtful for his sake, 
To rock her child beneath the whispering 
boughs. 
Singing its blue, half curtain'd eyes to sleep, 
With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep 

13* 



(150) 



WASHINGTON'S STATUE. 

SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA. 

Yes ! rear thy guardian hero's form 
On thy proud soil, thou western world ! 

A watcher through each sigh of storm, 
O'er freedom's flag unfurl'd. 

There, as before a shrine, to bow, 
Bid thy true sons their children lead : 

The language of that noble brow 
For all things good shall plead. 

The spirit rear'd in patriot fight. 

The virtue born of home and hearth, 

There calmly throned, a holy light 
Shall pour o'er chainless earth. 

And let that work of England's hand. 
Sent through the blast and surge's roar, 

So girt with tranquil glory stand, 
For ages on thy shore ! 

Such, through all time, the greetings be 
That with the Atlantic billow sweep ! 

Telling the mighty and the free 
Of brothers o'er the deep. 



(151) 



THE PALM TREE. 

It waved not through an Eastern sky, 
Beside a fount of Araby ; 
It was not fann'd by southern breeze 
In some green Isle of Indian seas, 
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew 
Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 
Through the laburnum's dropping gold 
Rose the light shaft of orient mould. 
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet. 
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. 

Strange look'd it there ! — the willow stream'd 
Where silvery waters near it gleam'd ; 
The lime -bough lured the honey-bee 
To murmur by the desert's tree, 
And showers of snowy roses made 
A lustre in its fan-like shade. 

There came an eve of festal hours — 
Rich music fiU'd that garden's bowers ; 
Lamps that from flowering branches hung, 
On sparks of dew soft colors flung, 
And bright forms glanced — a fairy show — 
Under the blossoms to and fro. 



(152) 

But one, a lone one, midst the throng 
Seem'd reckless of all dance or song : 
He was a youth of dusky mien. 
Whereon the Indian sun had been, 
Of crested brow, and long black hair— 
A stranger, like the palm-tree, there. 

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms ; 
He pass'd the pale green olives by. 
Nor won the chestnut-flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole palm he came. 
Then shot a rapture through his frame \ 

To him, to him its rustling spoke. 

The silence of his soul it broke ! 

It whisper'd of his own bright isle. 

That lit the ocean with a smile ; 

Ay, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea- wave's moan! 

His mother's cabin home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay ; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar. 
The conch-note heard along the shore ;— 
All through his wakening bosom swept. 
He clasp'd his country's tree and wept ! 

Oh ! scorn him not ! — the strength whereby 
The patriot girds himself to die, 
The unconquerable power, which fills 
The freeman battling on his hills. 

These have one fountain deep and clear 

The same whence gush'd the child-like tear! 



(153) 



THE TRAVELLER'S EYENING SONG 

Father, guide me ! Day declines, 
Hollow winds are in the pines ; 
Darkly waves each giant bough 
O'er the sky's last crimson glow ; 
Hush'd is now the convent's bell, 
Which erewhile with breezy swell 
From the purple mountains bore 
Greetings to the sunset-shore. 
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn 

Dies away. 
Father ! in the forest dim, 

Be my stay ! 

In the low and shivering thrill 
Of the leaves that late hung still ; 
In the dull and muffled tone 
Of the sea- wave's distant moan; 
In the deep tints of the sky, 
There are signs of tempest nigh. 
Ominous, with sullen sound, 
Falls the closing dusk around. 
Father ! through the storm and shade 

O'er the wild. 
Oh ! be Thou the lone one's aid — 

Save thy child ! 

Many a swift and sounding plume 
Homewards, through the boding gloom, 



(154) 

O'er my way hath flitted fast, 
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd 
From the chestnut's ruddy bark, 
And the pools, now lone and dark, 
Where the wakening night- winds sigh 
Through the long reeds mournfully. 
Homeward, homeward, all things haste- 
God of might ! 
Shield the homeless midst the waste, 
Be his light ! 

In his distant cradle nest, 
Now my babe is laid to rest ; 
Beautiful his slumber seems 
With a glow of heavenly dreams, 
Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep. 
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep, 
Where his mother bends to pray, 
For the loved and far away. — 
Father ! guard that household bower, 

Hear that prayer ! 
Back, through thine all-guiding pov/er 

Lead me there ! 

Darker, wilder, grows the night— 
Not a star sends quivering light 
Through the massy arch of shade 
By the stern old forest made. 
Thou ! to whose unslumbering eyes 
All my pathway open lies, 
By thy Son, who knew distress 
In the lonely wilderness, 



(155) 

Where no roof to that blest head 

Shelter gave — 
Father ! through tlie time of dread, 

Save, oh ! save ! 



THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 

Sing them upon the sunny hills, 

When days are long and bright, 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight ! 
Sing them along the misty moor, 

Where ancient hunters roved, 
And swell them through the torrent's roar, 

The songs our fathers loved ! 

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear 

WTien harps were in the hall. 
And each proud note made lance and speaf 

Thi'ill on the banner 'd wall : 
The songs that through om- valleys green, 

Sent on from age to age, 
Like his own river's voice, have been 

The peasant's heritage. 

The reaper sings them when the vale 

Is fiU'd with plumy sheaves ; 
The woodman, by the starlight pale, 

Cheer'd homeward through the leaves : 



lir 



( 156 ) 

And unto them the glancing oars 

A joyous measure keep, 
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 

Dash back the foaming deep. 

So let it be ! — 3, light they shed 

O'er each old fount and grove ; 
A memory of the gentle dead, 

A lingering spell of love. 
Murmuring the names of mighty men, 

They bid our streams roll on. 
And link high thoughts to every glen 

Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them your children round the hearth^ 

When evening fires burn clear, 
And in the fields of harvest mirth, 

And on the hills of deer : 
So shall each unforgotten word, 

When far those loved ones roam^ 
Call back the hearts which once it stirr'd, 

To childhood's holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain. 
The voices in thy household band 

Shall breathe then names again ; 
The heathery heights in vision rise 

Where, like the stag, they roved— 
Sing to your sons those melodies, 

The songs your fathers loved ' 



(157) 



THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. 

W"iLDLY and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests 
broke ; — 
' Sing us a death song, for thine hour is 
come," — 
So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 
Stillj and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fair-hair'd youth of England stood, 
Like a king's son ; though from his cheek had 
flown 
The mantling crimson of the island-blood, 
And his press'd lips look'd marble. — Fiercely 

bright. 
And high around him, blazed the fires of night, 
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro. 
As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face : — But who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befell. 
Known but to heaven that hour ? — Perchance a 

thought 
Of his far home then so intensely wrought, 
That its full image, pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony, 
Rose clear as day ! — and he might see the band, 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, 
Where the laburnums droop'd ; or haply binding 
The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding 
14 



(158) 

Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth, 
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth 
Where sat their mother ; — and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled ! — Perchance the prayer 
Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair ; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone 
Of her "Good night," might breathe from boy- 
hood gone ! 
He started and look'd up ; — thick cypress boughs 
Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly 
red 
In the broad stormy firelight ; — savage brows. 
With tall plumes crested and wild hues 
o'erspread, 
Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Look'd through the branches as through dungeon 

bars. 
Shedding no hope. — He knew, he felt his doom — 
Oh ! what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England ! — Idle fear ! 
Would the winds tell it ? — who might dream 

or hear 
The secrets of the forests ? — To the stake 
They bound him; and that proud young 
soldier strove 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake. 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love 
Of many hearts ! — ^the fondly rear'd, — the fair, 
Gladdening all eyes to see ! — And fetter'd there 
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 
Flamed U'p to light it, in the chie:^tain's hand. 






(159) 

He thought upon his God. — Hush ! hark ! a cry 

Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity, — 

A step hath pierced the ring ! — Who dares 

intrude 
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood ! — 
A girl — a young slight girl — a fawn-like child 
Of green savannas and the leafy wild, 
Springing unmark'd till then, as some lone 

flower, 
Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, — 
For hers had mourn'd a playmate brother dead. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 

Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 

And, by its passion's deepening fervor sway'd, 

Ev'n to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid 

His bright head on her bosom, and around 

His form her slender arms to shield it round 

Like close Liannes ; then raised her glittering 

eye 
And clear-toned voice that said, " He shall not 

die ! " 

" He shall not die ! " — the gloomy forest thrill' d 

To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 

On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were 

still'd, 

Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell. 

They gazed, — their dark souls bow'd before the 

maid. 
She of the dancing step in wood and glade ! 



(160) 

And, as her cheek flush'd through its olive hue, 
As her black tresses to the night wind flew, 
Something o'ermaster'd them from that young 

mien — 
Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen ; 
And seeming, to their child-like faith, a token 
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive^s 

breath j 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death ; 
Tf^hey quench'd the brand beneath the cypress 

tree ; 
* Away," they cried, " young stranger, thou art 

free ! " 



CASABIANCA. 

The boy stood on the biuning deck 
Whence all but he had fled j 

The flame that lit the battle's wreck. 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames roll'd on — he would not go 
Without his Father's word ; 

That Father, faint in death below. 
His voice no longer heard. 



(161) 

He cali'd aloud : — '' Say, Father, say 

If yet my task is done ? " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

*' Speak. Father ! " once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! " 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames roll'd on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath. 

And in his waving hair, 
And look'd from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My Father ! must I stay ? '' 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 
And stream'd above the gallant child. 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound- 
The boy — oh ! where was he ? 

Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strew'd the sea ! — 

With mast and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had bore their part — 

But the noblest thing which perish'd thero 
Was that young faithful heart. 
14* 



(162) 



GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR 
MYRIOLOGUE. 

A WAIL w as heard around the bed, the death-beii 

of the young, 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

mother sung. — 
" lanthis ! dost thou sleep ? — Thou sleep'st ! — 

but this is not the rest, 
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pil- 

low'd on my breast ! 
I luU'd thee not to this repose, lanthis ! my 

sweet son ! 
As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight 

I have done ! 
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon 

thee now? 
And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale 

glorious brow ? 

" I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most 

fair and brave ! 
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for 

the grave ! 
Though mournfully thy smile is fix'd, and 

heavily thine eye 
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it 

loved to lie ; 
And fast is bound the springing step, that seem'd 

on breezes borne. 



(163) 

When to thy couch I came and said, — * Wake, 

hunter, wake ! 'tis morn ! ' 
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower ! imtouch'd 

by slow decay, — 
And I, the wither'd stem, remain — I would that 

grief might slay ! 

" Oh ! ever when I met thy look, I knew that 

this would be ! 
I knew too well that length of days was not a 

gift for thee ! 
I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy 

bearing high ! — 
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told 

me thou must die ! 
That thou must die, my fearless one ! where 

swords were flashing red. — 
Why doth a mother live to say — My first-born 

and my dead ? 
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of 

victory won — 
Speak thou, and I will hear ! my child, lanthis ! 

my sweet son ! " 

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bea 

of the young, 
A fair-hair'd bride the Funeral Chant amidst her 

weeping sung. 
' lanthis ! look'st thou not on me ? — Can love 

indeed be fled ? 
When was it woe before to gaze upon thy 

stately head '' 



(164) 

I would that I had folio w'd thee, lanthis, my 

beloved ! 
And stood as woman oft hath stood where 

faithful hearts are proved! 
Tliat I had bound a breastplate on, and battled 

at thy side — 
I would have been a blessed thing together had 

we died ! 



" But where was I when thou didst fall beneath 

the fatal sword ? 
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the 

peaceful board ? 
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the 

shadow of the vine. 
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy 

shrine ? 
And thou wert lying low the while, the life- 
drops from thy heart 
Fast gushing like a mountain-spring ! — and 

couldst thou thus depart ? 
Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out 

thy fleeting breath ? — 
Oh ! I was with thee but in joy, that should 

have been in death ! 

* Yes I was with thee when the dance through 

mazy rings was led, 
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and 

when the feast was spread ! 
But not where noble blood flow'd forth, where 

sounding javelins flew — 



(165) 

Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not 

its last adieu ? 
What now can breathe of gladness more, — what 

scene, what hour, what tone ? 
The blue skies fade with all their lights ; they 

fade, since thou art gone ! 
Even that must leave me, that still face, by aL 

my tears unmoved — 
Take me from this dark world with thee, lanthis, 

my beloved ! " 

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed 

of the young, 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

sister sung. 
*' lanthis ! brother of my soul ! — oh where are 

now the days 
That laugh'd among the deep green hills, on all 

our infant plays ? 
When we two sported by the streams, or track 'd 

them to their source, 
And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet, 

fearless course, 
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills 

descend, 
I see thy bounding step no more — ^my brother 

and my friend ! 

"I come with flowers — for spring is come! 

lanthis ! art thou here ? 
I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast 

them on thy bier ! 



(166) 

Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's cro (vn-— 

but oh ! more meet they seem. 
The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of 

the stream ! 
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus 

early low — 
Alas ! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the 

sunshine's glow : 
The golden glow that through thy heart was 

wont such joy to send, — 
Woe ! that it smiles, and not for thee ! — ^my 

brother and my friend ! " 



WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 

t 
Gentle and lovely form. 

What didst thou here, 
When the fierce battle-storm 

Bore down the spear ? 

Banner and shiver'd crest. 

Beside thee strown, 
Tell, that amidst the best. 

Thy work was done ! 

Yet strangely, sadly fair. 

O'er the wild scene, 
Gleams through its golden hair 

That brow serene. 



(167) 

Low lies the stately Iiead, — 
Earth-bound the free ; 

How gave those haughty dead 
A place to thee ? 

Slumberer ! thine early bier 
Friends should have crown'd, 

Many a flower and tear 
Shedding around. 

Soft voices, clear and young, 

Mingling their swell. 
Should o'er the dust have sung 

Earth's last farewell. 

Sisters, above the grave 

Of thy repose. 
Should have bid violets wave 

With the white rose. 

Now must the trumpet's note^ 

Savage and shrill, 
For requiem o'er thee float, 

Thou fair and still ! 

And the swift charger sweep, 

In full career. 
Trampling thy place of sleep,^ — 

Why camest thou here ? 

Why ? ask the true heart why 

Woman hath been 
Ever where brave men die, 

Unshrinking seen ? 



(168) 

Unto this harvest ground 
Proud reapers came,— 

Some, for that stirring sound, 
A warrior's name ; 

Some, for the stormy play 

And joy of strife ; 
And some, to fling away 

A weary life ; — 

But thou, pale sleeper, thou, 
With the slight frame. 

And the rich locks, whose glow 
Death cannot tame ; 

Only one thought, one power, 

Thee could have led, 
So, through the tempest's hour. 

To lift thy head ! 

Only the true, the strong. 
The love, whose trust 

Woman's deep soul too long 
Pours on the dust I 



(169) 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 

When are the lessons given 
That shake the startled earth? When wakes 

the foe 
While the friend sleeps? When falls the 
traitor's blow ? 
When are proud sceptres riven, 
High hopes o'erthrown ? — It is when lands rejoice, 
When cities blaze and lift th' exulting voice, 
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
When mirth o'erflows, then tremble ! — 'Twas a 

night 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 

When through the regal bower 
The trumpet peal'd, ere yet the song was done, 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies, ruthless in their powei. 

The marble shrines were crown'd : 
Young voices through the blue Athenian sky. 
And Dorian reeds, made summer melody. 

And censers waved around ; 
And lyres were strung and bright libations pour'd ! 
When, through the streets, flash'd out th' avenging 

sword, 
Feaxless and free, the sword with myrtles boimd ! 
15 



b: 



(170) 

Through Rome a triumph pass'd. 
Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by 
That long array of glorious pageantry, 

With shout and trumpet-blast. 
An empire's gems their starry splendor shed 
O'er the proud march ; a king in chains was led j 
Al stately victor, crown'd and robed, came last. 

And many a Dryad's bower 
Had lent the laurel's which, in waving play, 
Stirr'd the warm air, and glisten'd round his 
way, 
As a quick-flashing shower. 
-O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress 
hung. 
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung — 
Woe for the dead ! — the father's broken flower ! 

A sound of lyre and song, 
In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile, 
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, 

Swept with that voice along ; 
And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam 
Where a chief revell'd in a monarch's dome. 
And fresh rose-garlands deck'd a glittering throng. 

'Twas Antony that bade 
The joyous chords ring out ! — but strains arose 
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close ! 

Sounds, by no mortal made. 
Shook Alexandria through her streets that night. 
And pass'd— and with another sunset's light, 
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 



( 171 ) 

Bright 'midst its vineyards lay 
The fair Campanian city, with its towers 
Aiid temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers 

Clear in the golden day ; 
Joy was around it as the glowing sky, 
And crowds had fiU'd its halls of revelry, 
And all the sunny air was music's way. 



A cloud came o'er the face 
Of Italy's rich heaven ! — its crystal blue 
Was changed, and deepen'd to a wrathful hue 

Of night, o'ershadowing space, 
As with the wings of death ! — in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hmi'd the burning shower, 
And who could tell the buried city's place ? 

Such things have been of yore. 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow, 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 

On the grape-cl asters pour ; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving; 
Along cJear seas of meUing sapphire, laving, 
As with a flow of light, their southern shore. 

Turn we to other ch'mes! — 
Far in the Dru'd-Tsle a feast was spread, 
'Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead : 

And ancient battle-rhymes 
Were chanted to the harp ; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed, 
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time ; 



(172) 

But, ere the giant-fane 
Cast ics broad shadows on the robe of even, 
Hush'd were the bards, and in the face of 

heaven, 
O'er that old burial plain 
FJash'd the keen Saxon dagger! — Blood was 

streaming 
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was 

gleaming. 
And Britain's hearths were heap'd that night 

in vain — 



For they return'd no more ! 
They that went forth at morn with reckless 

heart, 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their 

part ; 
And, on the rushy floor. 
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, 
The high wood fires were blazing in their halls ; 
But not for them — they slept — their feast was 

o'er! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Aye, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows ! 
Tame down the swelling heart! — the bridal 
rose. 
And the rich myrtle's flower 
Have veil'd the sword! — Red wines have 

sparkled fast 
From venom'd goblets, and soft breezes pass'd, 
With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower 



(173) 

Twine the young glowing wreath ' 
But pour not all your spirit in the song 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along 

Like summer's quickening breath ! 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth : 
Oh ! far too daring seems the joy of earth, 
So darkly press'd and girdled in by death ! 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

My dirge is in thy moan ; 
My spirit finds response in thee, 
To its own ceaseless cry — '^ Alone, alone ! " 

Yet send me back one other word, 

Ye tones that never cease ! 
Oh! let your secret caves be stirr'd, 
And say, dark waters ! will ye give me peace 

Away ! my weary soul hath sought 

In vain one echoing sigh. 
One answer to consuming thought 
In human hearts — and will the wave reply ? 

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

Sound in thy scorn and pride ! 
I ask not, alien world, from thee. 
What my own kindred earth hath still denied. 
15* 



(174) 

And yet I loved that earth so well 

With all its lovely things ! 
— Was it for this the death wind fell 
On my rich lyre, and qiiench'd its living strings ? 

— Let them lie silent at my feet ! 

Since broken even as they, 
The heart whose music made them sweet, 
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away. 

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name, 

The laurel-wreath is mine — 
With a lone heart, a weary frame — 
O restless deep ! I come to make them thine ! 

Give place to that crown, that burning crown, 

Place in thy darkest hold ! 
Bury my anguish, my renown. 
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. 

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest. 

Thou hast thy love, thy home j 
They wait thee in the quiet nest. 
And I, the unsought, un watch 'd-for — I too come ! 

I, with this wing'd nature fraught, 

These visions wildly free, 
This boundless love, this fiery thought — 
A-lone I come — oh ! give me peace, dark sea ' 



C175) 



lYAN THE CZAR. 

He sat in silence on the ground, 

The old and haughty Czar, 
Lonely, though princes girt him round, 

And leaders of the war : 
He had cast his jewell'd sabre, 

That many a field had won. 
To the earth beside his youthful dead— 

His fair smd first-born son. 



With a robe of ermine for its bed, 

Was laid that form of clay, 
Where the light a stormy smiset shed, 

Through the rich tent made way ; 
And a sad and solemn beauty 

On the pallid face came down. 
Which the Lord of nations mutely watch 'd, 

In the dust, with his renown. 



Low tones, at last, of woe and fear 

From his full bosom broke — 
A mournful thing it was to hear 

How then the proud man spoke ! 
The voice that through the combat 

Had shouted far and high. 
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, 

Burden'd with agony. 



C176) 

'* There is no crimson on thy cheek, 

And on thy lip no breath ; 
I call thee, and thou dost not speak — 

They tell me this is death ! 
And fearful things are whispering 

That I the deed have done — 
For the honor of thy father's name, 

Look up, look up, my son ! 



" Well might I know death's hue and mien, 

But on thine aspect, boy ! 
What, till this moment, have 1 seen 

Save pride and tameless joy ? 
Swiftest thou wert to battle, 

And bravest there of all — 
How could I think a warrior's frame 

Thus like a flower should fall ? 



" I will not bear that still cold look — 

Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 
Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 

All, save this calm, from thee ! 
Lift brightly up, and proudly, 

Once more thy kindred eyes ! 
Hath my word lost its power on earth ? 

I say to thee, arise ! 

" Didst thou not know I loved thee well ? 

Thou didst not ! and art gone. 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell 

Where man must dwell alone. 



-r--T^I 



(177) 

Come back, young fiery spirit i 
If but one hour, to learn 

The secrets of the folded heart 
That seem'd to thee so stern. 



" Thou Avert the first, the first, fair child, 

That in mine arms I press'd : 
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled 

Like summer on my breast ! 
1 rear'd thee as an eagle, 

To the chase thy steps I led, 
I bore thee on my battle-horse, 

I look upon thee— dead ! 

" Lay down my warlike banners here, 

Never again to wave. 
And bury my red sword and spear. 

Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave ' 
And leave me ! — I have conquer'd, 

I have slain — my work is done ! 
Whom have I slain ? — ye answer not— 

Thou art too mute, my son ! " 

And thus his wild lament was pour'd 

Through the dark resounding nigh., 
And the battle kncAV no more his sword, 

Nor the foaming steed his might. 
He heard strange voices moaning 

In every wind that sigh'd ; 
From the searching stars of heaven he shraiik- 

Humbly the conqueror died. 



(178) 



THE DYING IMPROYISATOIRE. 

The spirit of my land, 
It visits me once more ! — though I must die 
Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann'd 

My own bright Italy ! 

It is, it is thy breath, 
Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame 
Is shaken by the wind ; — in life and death 

Still trembling, yet the same ! 

Oh ! that love's quenchless power 
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, 
And through thy groves its dying music shower 

Italy! Italy! 

The nightingale is there. 
The sunbeam's glow, the citron-flower's perfume, 
The south wind's whisper in the scented air — 

It will not pierce the tomb ! 

Never, oh ! never more. 
On my Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell 
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore — 

My Italy ! farewell ! 

Alas ! — thy hills among, 
Had I but left a memory of my name. 
Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song. 

Unto immortal fame ! 



(179) 

But like a lute's brief tone, 
Like a rose-odor on the breezes cast, 
Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone, 

So hath my spirit pass'd — 

Pouring itself away 
As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns 
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns. 

Into a fleeting lay ; 

That swells, and floats, and dies, 
Leaving no echo to the summer woods 
Of the rich breathings and impassion'd sighs 

Which thrill'd their solitudes. 

Yet, yet remember me ! 
Friends ! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, 
When from my bosom, joyously and free. 

The fiery fountain sprung. 

Under the dark rich blue 
Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, 
And when woods knidle into Spring's first hue, 

Sweet friends ! remember me ! 

And in the marble halls. 
Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear, 
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls, 

Let me be with you there ! 

Fain would I bind, for you. 
My memory with all glorious things to dwell ; 
E^aiii bid all lovely sounds my name renew — 

Sweet friends ! bright land ! farewell ! 



(180) 



THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 

Child, amidst the flowers at play, 
While the red light fades away ; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye, 
Ever following silently ; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Call'd thy harvest work to leave — 
Pray : ere yet the dark hours be. 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Traveller, in the stranger's land, 
Far from thine own household band j 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone ; 
Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell j 
Sailor, on the darkening sea ! 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Warrior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun ; 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial-plain ; 
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
Kindred by one holy tie. 
Heaven's first star alike ye see — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 



(181) 



THE HEBREW MOTHER. 

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's j.laiii, 
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence? 
Went up to Zion ; for the boy was vow'd 
Unto the temple service : — b}?" the hand 
She led him, and her silent soul, the while, 
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers, 
To bring before her God. So pass'd they on 
O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, 
Like lulling rain drops, or the olive boughs, 
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue 
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest : 
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and 

watch 
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, 
As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount 
Lay, like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades 
Making its bank green gems along the wild, 
There, too, she linger'd, from the diamond wave 
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, 
And softly parting clusters of jet curls 
To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reached. 
The earth's one sanctuary — and rapture hush'd 
Her bosom, as before her, through the day 
16 



(182) 

It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd 
In light like floating gold. But when that hour 
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy- 
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear 
Turn'd from the white-robed priest; and round 

her arm 
Clung even as joy clings — the deep spring-tide 
Of nature then swelPd high, and o'er her child 
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song. — "Alas ! " she cried, — 



" Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me ; 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes ; 

And now fond thoughts arise. 
And silver chords again to earth have won me ; 
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart — 

How shall I hence depart ? 

" How the lone paths retrace where thou wert 

playing 
So late along the mountains, at my side ? 

And I, in joyous pride. 
By every place of flowers my course delaying. 
Wore, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair. 

Beholding thee so fair ! 

" And, oh ! the nome whence thy bright smile 

hath parted. 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 
Turn'd from its door away ? 



fr;:^ 



(183) 

While through its chambers wandering, weary 

hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still 

Went like a singing rill ? 



"Under the palm trees thou no more shait 

meet me, 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

With the full water-urn ; 
Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings 

greet me. 
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake. 
And watch for thy dear sake. 

" And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round 

thee, 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed ? 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound 

thee. 
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, 
A cry which none shall hear ? 

"What have I said, my child! — Will He not 

hear thee, 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest ? 

Shall He not guard thy rest. 
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill thy dreams with 

joy? 

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy. 



(184) 

" 1 give thee to thy God — the God that gave 

thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness, to my heart ! 

And, precious as thou art. 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall Lave 

thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 
And thou shalt be His child. 

" Therefore, farewell ! — ^I go, my soul may 

fail me. 
As the hart panteth for the water brooks, 

Yearning for thy sweet lookss 
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewaiJ 

me ; 
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, 
The Rock of Strength.— Farewell ! " 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty, side by side. 
They fill'd one home with glee ; — 

Their graves are sever'd, far and wide. 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 

She had each folded flower in sight — 
Where are those dreamers now ? 



(185) 

One, 'midst the forest of the west, 

By a dai'k stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- 
He lies where pearls lie deep ; 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest, 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapt his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fcinn'd ; 

She faded 'midst Italian flowers — 
The la.rt of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who play'd 
Beneath the same green tree ; 

Whose voices mingled as they pray'd 
Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheered with song the hearth— 

Alas ! for love, if thou wert all. 
And nought beyond, O earth ' 



16 



(186) 



TASSO AND HIS SISTER. 

She sat, where on each wind that sigh'd, 

The citron's breath went by, 
*While the red gold of eventide 

Burn'd in the Italian sky. 
Her bower was one where daylight's close 

Full of sweet laughter found. 
As thence the voice of childhood rose 

To the high vineyards round. 

But still and thoughtful, at her knee, 

Her children stood that hour, 
Their bursts of song and dancing glee 

Hush'd as by words of power. 
With bright fix'd wondering eyes, that gazed 

Up to their mother's face. 
With brows through parted ringlets raised. 

They stood in silent grace. 

While she — yet something o'er her look 

Of mournfulness was spread — 
Forth from a poet's magic book 

The glorious numbers read ; 
The proud undying lay, which pour'd 

Its light on evil years ; 
His of the gifted pen and sword, 

The triumph — and the tears. 



(187) 

She read of fair Erminia's flight, 

Which Venice once might hear 
Sung on her ghttering seas at night 

By many a gondolier ; 
Of him she read, who broke the charm 

That wrapt the myrtle grove ; 
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arni; 

That slew his Paynim love. 



Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd, 

Young holy hearts were stii'r'd ; 
And the meek tears of woman flow'd 

Fast o'er each burning word. 
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, 

Came sweet, each pause between ; 
When a strange voice of sudden grief 

Burst on the gentle scene. 

The mother turn'd — a wayworn man, 

In pilgrim garb, stood nigh, 
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, 

Of proud yet mournful eye. 
But drops which would not stay for prido 

From that dark eye gush'd free, 
As pressing his pale brow, he cried 

" Forgotten ! e'en by thee ! 

" Am I so changed ? — ^-and yet we too 
Oft hand in hand haoe play'd ; — 

This brow hath been all bathed in dew 
From wreaths which thou hast made j 



(188) 

We have knelt down and said one prayer, 

And sung one vesper strain ; 
My soul is dim with clouds of care — 

Tell me those words again ! 



" Life hath been heavy on my headj 

I come a stricken deer, 
Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled, 

To bleed in stillness here." 
She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept 

Shook all her thrilling frame — 
She fell upon his neck and wept, 

Murmuring her brother's name. 

Her brother's name ! — and who was he, 

The weary one, th' unknown, 
That came, the bitter world to flee, 

A stranger to his own ? — 
He was the bard of gift divine 

To sway the souls of men ; 
He of the song for Salem's shrme, 

He of the swoid and pen ! 



ENGLAND'S DEAD. 

Son of the ocean isle ! 
Where sleep yom* mighty dead ? 
Show me what high and stately pile 
Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed. 



(189) 

Go, stranger ! track the deep 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains, 
By the pyramid o'ersway'd. 
With fearful poAver the noonday reigns, 
And the palm trees yield no shade. 

But let the angry sun 
From heaven look fiercely red, 
Unfelt by those whose task is done ! — 
There slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 
Along the Indian shore. 
And far by Ganges' banks at night, 
Is heard the tiger's roar. 

But let the sound roll on ! 
It hath no tone of dread, 
For those that from their toils are gone ,— 
There slumber England's dead. 

Loud rush the torrent-floods 
The western wilds among, 
And free, in green Columbia's woods * 
The hunter's bow is strung. 

But let the floods rush on ! 
Let the arrow's flight be sped ! 
Why should they reck whose task is done ?- 
There slumber England's dead ! 



(190) 

The mountain-storms rise high 
In the snowy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine boughs through the sky, 
Like rose leaves on the breeze. 

But let the storm rage on ! 
Let the fresh wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won, — 
There slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deeps repose 
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour, 
When round the ship the ice-fields close, 
And the northern night-clouds lower. 

But let the ice drift on ! 
Let the cold-blue desert spread ! 
Their course with mast and flag is done, — 
Even there sleeps England's dead. 

The warlike of the isles, 
The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles, 
The seas and shores their grave ! 

Go, stranger ! track the deep. 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep^ 
Where rest not England's dead. 



-]i 



:'2ai^^ 



(191) 



THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE 
OF THE NILE. 

In sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, 

A wanderer proudly stood 
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone, 

Of Egypt's awful flood ; 
The cradle of that mighty birth, 
So long a hidden thing to earth. 

He heard its life's first murmuring sound, 

A low, mysterious tone ; 
A music sought, but never found 

By kings and warriors gone ; 
He listen'd — and his heart beat high — 
That was the song of victory ! 

The rapture of a conqueror's mood 

Rush'd burning through his frame. 

The depths of that green solitude 
Its torrents could not tame, 

Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, 

Round those calm fountains of the Nile, 

Night came with stars ; — across his soul, 
There swept a sudden change, 

E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal, 
A shadow dark and strange, 

Breathed forth the thought, so swift to fall 

O'er triumph's hour — And is this all ? 



iC: 



(192) 

No more than this ! — what seem'd it now 
First by that spring to stand ? 

A thousand streams of lovelier flow 
Bathed his own mountain land ! 

Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, 

Their wild sweet voices call'd him back. 

They call'd him back to many a glade, 
His childhood's haunt of play, 

Where brightly through the beechen shade 
Their waters glanced away ; 

They call'd him, with their sounding waves, 

Back to his father's hills and graves. 

But, darkly mingling with the thought 

Of each familiar scene, 
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 

With all that lay between, — 
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, 
The whirling sands, the red simoon ! 

Where was the glow of power and pride t 

The spirit born to roam ? 
His weary heart within him died 

With yearnings for his home ; 
All vainly struggling to repress 
That gush of painful tenderness. 

He wept — the stars of Afric's heaven 

Beheld his bursting tears. 
E'en on that spot where fate had given 

The meed of toiling years. 
O happiness ! how far we flee 
Thine own sweet pa'hs in search of thee ! 
17 



(193) 



HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSED 
HOLD ON HIS RETURN. 

IN THE OLDEN TIME. 

Jot ! the lost one is restored ! 
Sunshine comes to hearth and board, 
From the far-off countries old 
Of the diamond and red gold ; 
From the dusky archer bands, 
Roamers of the fiery sands ; 
From the desert winds, whose breath 
Smites with sudden silent death ; 
He hath reach'd his home again, 

Where we sing 
In thy praise a fervent strain, 

God our King ! 

Mightiest ! unto thee he turn'd, 
When the noonday fiercest burn'd ; 
When the fountain springs were far. 
And the sounds of Arab war 
Swell'd upon the sultry blast, 
And the sandy columns past. 
Unto Thee he cried ! and Thou, 
Merciful ! didst hear his vow ! 
Therefore, unto thee again 

Joy shall sing, 
Msmy a sweet and thankful strain, 

God our King ! 



(194) 

Thou wert with him on the main, 
And the snowy mountain-chain, 
And the rivers dark and wide, 
Which through Indian forests glide, 
Thou didst guard him from the wrath 
Of the lion in his path, 
And the arrows on the breeze. 
And the drooping poison trees ; 
Therefore, from household train 

Oft shall spring 
Unto thee a blessing strain, 

God our King ! 

Thou to his lone watching wife 
Hast brought back the light of life ! 
Thou hast spared his loving child 
Home to greet him from the wild. 
Though the suns of eastern skies 
On his cheek have set their dyes. 
Though long toils and sleepless cares 
On his brow have blanch 'd the hairs, 
Yet the night of fear is flown. 
He is living, and our own ! — 
Brethren ! spread his festal board, 
Hang his mantle on his sword, 
With the armor on the wall, 
While this long, long silent hall 
Joyfully doth hear again 

Voice and string 
Swell to Thee the exulting straia 

God our King ! 



(195) 



THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 

Thou'rt bearing hence thy roses, 

Glad summer, fare thee well ! 
Thou'rt singing thy last melodies 

In every wood and dell. 

But ere the golden sunset 

Of thy latest lingering day. 
Oh ! tell me, o'er this chequered earth, 

How hast thou pass'd away ? 

Brightly, sweet Summer ! brightly 

Thine hours have floated by, 
To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, 

The rangers of the sky. 

And brightly in the forests 

To the wild deer wandering free ; 

And brightly 'midst the garden flowers 
Is the happy murmuring bee : 

But how to human bosoms, 

With all their hopes and fears. 
And thoughts that make them eagle-wings. 

To pierce the unborn years ? 

Sweet Summer ! to the captive 

Thou hast flown in burning dreams 

Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, 
And the blue rejoicing streams ; — - 



( 196 ) 

To the wasted and the weary- 
On the bed of sickness bound, 

In swift delirious fantasies, 

That changed with every sound ; — 

To the sailor on the billows. 

In longings wild and vain, 
For the gushing founts and breezy hills, 

And the homes of earth again ! 

And unto me, glad Summer ! 

How hast thou flown to me ? 
My chainless footstep nought hath kept 

From thy haunts of song and glee. 

Thou hast flown in wayward visions, 

In memories of the dead — 
In shadows from a troubled heart, 

O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 

In brief and sudden strivings 

To fling a weight aside — 
'Midst these thy melodies have ceased, 

And all thy roses died. 

But oh ! thou gentle Summer ! 

If I greet thy flowers once more^ 
Bring me again the buoyancy 

Wherewith my soul should soar ! 

Give me to hail thy sunshine, 

With song and spirit free ; 
Or in a purer air than this 

May that next meeting be ! 



(197) 



HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAIN- 
EERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION. 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty, 

By the touch of the mountain sod. 
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge, 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our. God, our fathers' God ! 

We are watchers of a beacon 

Whose light must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

'Midst the silence of the sky ; 
The rocks yield founts of courage. 

Struck forth as by thy rod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the dark resounding caverns. 

Where thy still, small voice is heard ; 
For the strong pines of the forest. 

That by thy breath are stirr'd ; 
For the storms on whose free pinions 

Thy spirit walks abroad ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Dur God, our fathers' God ! 
17* 



(198) 

The royal eagle darteth 

On his quarry from the heights, 
And the stag that knows no master, 

Seeks there his wild delights ; 
But we, for thy communion, 

Have sought the mountain sod, 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

The banner of the chieftain, 

Far, far below us waves ; 
The war-horse of the spearman 

Cannot reach our lofty caves : 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of freedom's last abode ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the shadow of thy presence, 

Round our camp of rock outspread ; 
For the stern defiles of battle. 

Bearing record of our dead ; 
For the snows and for the torrents, 

For the free heart's burial sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



Ll99) 



THE BOON OF MEMORY. 

I GO, I go ! — and must mine image fade [play'd, 
From the green spots wherein my childhood 

By my own streams? 
Must my hfe part from each familiar place, 
As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 

Of its lone themes ? 

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met 

In grief or glee ? 
All the sweet counsel, the communion high, 
The kindly words of trust in days gone by, 

Pour'd full and free ? 

A boon, a talisman, O Memory ! give, 

To shrine my name in hearts Avhere I would live 

For ever more ! 
Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt. 
Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 

A thought restore ! 

In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, 
In the dim brooding violet of the dell. 

Sat deep that thought ! 
And let the sunset's melancholy glow. 
And let the Spring's first whisper, faint and low 

With me be fraught ! 



( 200 ) 

And memory answer 'd me : — " Wild wish and 

vain ! 
I have no hues the loveliest to detain 

In the heart's core. 
The place they held in bosoms all their own, 
Soon with new shadows fill'd, new flowers 
o'ergrown, 
Is theirs no more." 

Hast thou such power, O Love ? — and love 

replied, 
'' It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's full tide 

Of hope and trust, 
Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain — 
'Tis but to write with the heart's fiery rain, 

Wild words on dust ! " 

Song, is the gift with thee ? — I ask a lay. 
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away 

From the still breast ; 
Fill'd with a tone — oh ! not for deathless fame, 
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, 

Where it would rest. 

And Song made answer — " It is not in me, [b* 
Though call'd immortal ; though my gifts may 

All but divine. 
A place of lonely brightness I can give : [live- — 
A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst 

This is not mine ! " 

Death, Death ! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil ? 
And Death, the Strong One, spoke ; — ^' 1 caa 
but still 



(201) 

Each vain regret. 
What if forgiven ? — All thy soul would crave, 
Thou too, within the mantle of the grave, 

Wilt soon forget." 

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, 
As from all nature's voices one reply, 

But one — was given. 
" Earth has no heart, fond dreamer ! with a tone 
To send thee back the spirit of thine own — 

Seek it in Heaven." 



KINDRED HEARTS. 

Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below : 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow : 
Few — and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this life of ours 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be, that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which tiuns 
In such deep reverence to the sky 

Where the rich sunset burns : 
It may be, that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 

A dream, to him unknown. 



(202 J 

The tune that speaks of other times — 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes, 

The sound of waves by night, 
The wind that, with so many a tone, 

Some chord within can thrill, — 
These may have language all thine own, 

To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly, that from childhood grew. 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part. 
And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,- 

Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made, 

Wherein bright spirits blend. 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, 

With the same breeze that bend. 
For that full bliss of thought allied, 

Never to mortals given, — 
Oh ! lay thy lovely dreams eiside. 

Or lift them unto Heaven. 



(203) 



THE PARTHENON. 

Fair Parthenon ! yet still must Fancy weep 
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. 
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep 
In all their beauty still — and thine is gone ! 
Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered, 
And varying rites have sanctified thy shrine. 
The dust is round thee of the race that rear'd 
Thy walls ; and thou — their fate must soon 

be thine ! 
But when shall earth again exult to see 
Visions divine like theirs renew 'd in aught like 

thee ? 



Lone are thy pillars now — each passing gale 
Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which 

moan'd 
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale 
Of the bright synod once above them throned. 
Mourn, graceful ruin ! on thy sacred hill, 
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate havo 

shared : 
Yet art thou honor'd in each fragment still 
That wasting years and barbarous hands had 

spared ; 
Each hallow'd stone, from rapine's fury borne, 
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet 

unborn. 



( 204 ) 

Yes ; in those fragments, though by time 

Jefaced 
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains 
All that may charm the enlighten'd eye of 

taste. 
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. 
As vital fragrance breathes from every part 
Of the crush'd myrtle, or the bruised rose, 
E'en thus the essential energy of art 
There in each wreck imperishably glows ! 
The soul of Athens lives in every line, 
Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine. 

Mark — on the storied frieze the graceful train, 
The holy festival's triumphal throng. 
In fair procession, to Minerva's fane, 
With many a sacred symbol, move along. 
There every shade of bright existence trace, 
The fire of youth, the dignity of age ; 
The matron's calm austerity of grace. 
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ; 
The nymph's light symmetry, the chiefs 

proud mien ; 
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the 

scene. 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form. 
Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows ; 
There e'en the steed, with bold expression 

warm, 
Is cloth'd with majesty, with being glows. 
One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole ; 



— =*^1 



(205) 

Those varied groups the same bright impress 

bear ; 
One beam an essence of exalting soul 
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair ; 
And well that pageant of the glorious dead 
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled. 

O conquering Genius ! that couldst thus detain 
The subtle graces, fading as they rise. 
Eternalize expression's fleeting reign, 
Arrest warm life in all its energies. 
And fix them on the stone — thy glorious lot 
Might wake ambition's envy, and create 
Powers half divine : while nations are forgot, 
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish 'd 

fate ! 
And when thy hand first gave its wonders 

birth, 
The realms that hail them now scarce claim'd a 

name on earth. 

Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere 
But once beheld, and never to return ? 
No — we may hail again thy bright career, 
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ! 
Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear 
A stamp of heaven, thai ne'er hath been 

renew'd — 
A light inherent — ^let not man despair : 
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued ; 
For still is nature fair, and thought divine, 
And art hath won a world in models pure as thine. 
18 



(206) 



SISTER ! SINCE I MET THEE LAST. 

Sister ! since I met thee last, 
G'er thy brow a change hath past, 
In the softness of thine eyes, 
Deep and still a shadow lies ; 
From thy voice there thrills a tone. 
Never to thy childhood known ; 
Through thy soul a storm hath moved, 
— Gentle sister, thou hast loved ! 

Yes ! thy varying cheek hath caught 
Hues too bright from troubled thought ; " 
Far along the wandering stream, 
Thou art followed by a dream : 
In the woods and valleys lone 
Music haunts thee, not thine own : 
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain ? 
— Sister, thou hast loved in vain ! 

Tell me not the tale, my flower ! 
On my bosom pour that shower ! * 
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted ; 
Tell me not of young hopes blasted ; 
Wring not forth one burning word. 
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd ! 
Home alone can give thee rest. 
— Weep, sweet sister, on my breast ! 



(207) 



THE TWO YOICES. 

Two solemn Voices, in a funerail strain, 

Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain 

Meet in the sky : 
" Thou art gone hence ! " one sang ; ^' Oui 

hght is flown, 
Our beautiful, that seem'd too much our own 
Ever to die ! 

" Thou art gone hence ! — our joyous hills among 
Never again to pour thy soul in song. 

When spring-flowers rise ! 
Never the friend's familiar step to meet 
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet 

Of thy glad eyes." 

*' Thou art gone home, gone home ! " then, high 

and clear. 
Warbled that other Yoice : '^ Thou hast no teai 

Again to shed. 
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain. 
Never, weigh'd down by Memory's clouds, again 

To bow thy head. 

" Thou art gone home ! oh ! early crown 'd and 

blest ! 
Where could the love of that deep heart And rest 
With aught below ? 



( 208 ) 

Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, 
All the bright rose leaves drop from life away — 
Thrice bless'd to go ! " 

Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like Yoice of grief — 
" Thou art gone hence ! alas ! that aught so brief, 

So loved should be ; 
Thou tak'st our summer hence ! — the flower, the 

tone 
The music of our being, all in one. 
Depart with thee ! 

*' Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled ! 
Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead ? 

The dark unknown ? 
Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall. 
Never again to light up hearth or hall, 

Thy smile is gone ! " 

" Home, home ! " once more the exulting Yoice 

arose : 
" Thou art gone home ! — from that divine repose 

Never to roam ! 
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain. 
To read of change, in eyes beloved, again — 

Thou art gone home ! 

*' By the bright waters now thy lot is cast — 
Joy for thee, happy friend ! thy bark hath past 

The rough sta's foam! 
Now the long yearning^ of thy soul are stilPd, 
Home ! home ! thy peace is won, thy heart is fiU'd* 

Thou art gone home ! " 



-H 



209 



THE IMAGE IN LAYA * 

Thou thing of years departed ! 

What ages have gone by, 
Since here the mournful seal was set 

By love and agony ? 

Temple and tower have moulder'd, 
Empires from earth have pass'd, 

And woman's heart hath left a trace 
Thv»se glories to outlast ! 

And childhood's fragile image, 

Thus fearfully enshrined, 
Siuvives the proud memorials rear'd 

By conquerors of mankind. 

Babe ! wert thou brightly slumbering 

Upon thy mother's breast. 
When suddenly the fiery tomb 

Shut round each gentle guest ? 

A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, 

Fair babe and loving heart ! 
One moment of a thousand pangs — 

Yet better than to part ! 

• The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped U 
the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. 

18* 



(r 



(210) 

Haply of that fond bosom 

On ashes here impress'd, 
Thou wert the only treasure, child ! 

Whereon a hope might rest. 

Perchance all vainly lavish'd 

Its other love had been, 
And where it trusted, naught remained 

But thorns on which to lean. 

Par better, then, to perish, 

Thy form within its clasp, 
Than live and lose thee, precious one * 

Prom that impassion'd grasp. 

Oh ! I could pass all relics 

Left by the pomps of old. 
To gaze on this rude monument 

Cast in affection's mould. 

Love, human love ! what art thou t 

Thy print upon the dust 
Outlives the cities of renown 

Wherein the mighty trust ! 

Immortal, oh ! immortal 

Thou art, whose earthly glow 

Hath given these ashes holiness-— 
It must, it must be so ! 



v211) 



THE SUMMER'S CALL. 

Come away ! the sunny hours 
Woo thee far to founts and bowers ! 
O'er the very waters now. 
In their play, 
Flowers are shedding beauty's glow- 
Come away ! 
Where the lily's tender gleam 
Quivers on the glancing stream — 
Come away ! 

And the air is filled with sound, 
Soft, and sultry, and profound ; 
Murmurs through the shadowy grass 

Lightly stray ; 
Faint winds whisper as they pass — 

Come away ; 
Where the bee's deep music swells 
From the trembling foxglove bells — 

Come away ! 

In the skies the sapphire blue 
Now hath won its richest hue ; 
In the woods the breath of song 

Night and day 
Floats with leafy scents along — 

Come away ! 
Where the boughs with dewy gloom 
Darken each thick bed of bloom 

Come away ! 



( 212 ) 

In the deep heart of the rose 
Now the crimson love-hue glows ; 
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night 

Sheds a ray- 
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright — ^ 

Come away ! 
Where the fair cup-moss lies. 
With the wild-wood strawberries, 

Come away ! 

Now each tree by summer crown'd, 
Sheds its own rich twilight round ; 
Glancing there from sun to shade, 

Bright wings play ; 
There the deer its couch hath made- 
Come away ! 
Where the smooth leaves of the lime 
GlisteK in their honey-time — 

Come away — away ! 



HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. 

The bark that held a prince went down, 

The sweeping waves roll'd on ; 
And what was England's glorious crown 

To him that wept a son ? 
He lived — ^for life may long be borne 

Ere sorrow break its chain ; 
Why comes not death for those who mourn ?— 

He never smiled again ! 



(213) 

There stood proud forms around his thione, 
The stately and the brave ; 

But which could fill the place of one, 
That one beneath the wave ? 

Before him pass'd the young and fair, 
In pleasure's reckless train ; 

But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair- 
He never smiled again ! 

He sat where festal bowls went round, 

He heard the minstrel sing, 
He saw the tourney's victor crown'd, 

"Amidst the knightly ring : 
A murmur of the restless deep 

Was blent with every strain, 
A voice of winds that would not sleep - 

He never smiled aorain. 



-&" 



Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace 
Of vows once fondly pour'd, 

And strangers took the kinsman's place 
At many a joyous board ; 

Graves, which true love had bathed with tearSj 
Were left to heaven's bright rain. 

Fresh hopes were born for other years- 
He never smiled again ! 



V214) 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 

The warrior bow'd his crested head, and lame J 

his heart of fire, 
And sued the haughty king to free ms long- 

imprisoned oire ; 
*< I bring thte here my fortress keys, I bring my 

captive train, 
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord :- -on, 

break my father's chain ! " 



*' Rise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a 

ransom'd man this day ; 
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet 

him on his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded 

on his steed. 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 

foamy speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they press'd, there came 

a glittering bacd, 
With one that 'midst thszia stately rode, as a 

leader in the land ; 
" Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very 

truth, is he. 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd 

so long to see." 



(215) 

His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heaved, his 

cheek'? blood came and went ; 
He reach 'd that gray-hair 'd chieftain's side, and 

there, dismounting, bent ; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand 

he took, — 
What was thece in its touch that all his fiery 

spirit shook ? 



That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropp'd 

from his like lead, — 
He look'd up to the face above — the face was of 

the dead ! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow 

W2LS fix'd and white ; — 
He met at last his father's eyes — but in them 

was no sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazea, bi^i 

who could paint that gaze ? 
They hush'd their very hearts, that saw its 

horror and amaze ; 
They might have chain'd him, as bei'ore tnat 

stony form he stood. 
For the power was stricken from nis aiin, anci 

from his lip the blood. 

" Father ! " at length he murmur'd low — and 

wept like childhood then, — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of 

warlike men ' — 



( 216 ) 

He thought on all his glorious hopes, all his 

young renown : 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the 

dust sate down. 



Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his 

darkly mournful brow, 
"No more, there is no more," he said, 'Ho lift 

the sword for now. — 
My king is false, my hope betray 'd, my Father — 

oh ! the worth, 
The glory and the loveliness, are pass'd away 

from earth ! 



" 1 thought to stand where banners waved, my 

sire ! beside thee yet, 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's 

free soil had met, — 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then, — ^for 

thee my fields were won, — 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though 

thou hadst no son ! " 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he 

seized the monarch's rein. 
Amidst the pale and wilder 'd looks of all the 

courtier train : 
And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing 

war-horse led, 
And sternly set them face to face, — the king 

before the dead ! — 



-J 



(217) 

" Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's 

hand to kiss ? — 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell 

me what is this f 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — give 

answer, where are they ? — 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send 

life through this cold clay ! 

*' Into these glassy eyes put light — be still ! keep 

down thine ire, — 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth 

is not my sire ! 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom 

my blood was shed, — 
Thou canst not — and a king ? — His dust be 

mountains on thy head ! " 

He loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell, — upon 

the silent face 
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, — then 

turn'd from that sad place : 
His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in 

martial strain ; 
His banner led the spears no more ainidst the 

hills of Spain. 

19 



(218^ 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
» And flowers to wither at the north-wind's 

breath, 
And stars to set, — ^but all. 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death 1 

Day is for mortal care. 

Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous 
hearth. 
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 
prayer ; 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour, 

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; 
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power. 

A time for softer tears, — ^but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 

May look like things too glorious for decay, 
And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 

That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's 
breath, 
And stars to set, — but all. 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death .' 



(219) 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer birds from far shall cross the 
sea, 
When autmnn's hue shall tmge the golde:i 
grain — 
But who shall teach us when to look for theo ' 

Is it when spring's first gale 

Comes forth to whisper where the vic.ttb lie? 
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 

They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam, 

Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 
Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 

And the world calls us forth — and thou art 
there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely 
crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 

And flowers to wither at the north- wmd's 
breath, 
And stars to set, — ^but all, 

Thou hast all seasons for thine OAvn, O Death ! 



y%%0) 



THE VOICE OF HOMF TO THE 
PRODIGAL. 

O ! WHEN wilt thou return 
To thy spirit's early loves ? 

To the freshness of the morn, 
To the stillness of the groves ? 

The summer-birds are calling 
Thy household porch around, 

And the merry waters falling 

With sweet laughter in their sound 

And a thousand bright-vein'd flowers, 
From their banks of moss and fern, 

Breathe of the sunny hours — 
But when wilt thou return ? 

Oh ! thou hast wander'd long 

From thy home without a guide ; 

And thy native woodland song, 
In thine alter'd heart hath died. 

Thou hast flung the wealth away, 
And the glory of thy Spring ; 

And to thee the leaves' light play 
Is a long-forgotten thing. 

But when wilt thou return ? — 
Sweet dews may freshen soon 

The flower, within whose urn 
Too fiercely gazed the noon. 



(221) 

O'er tlie image of the sky, 

Which the lake's clear bosom wore, 
Darkly may shadows lie — 

But not for evermore. 

Give back thy heart again 

To the f eedom of the woods, 

To the birds' triumphant strain, 
To the mountain solitudes ! 

But when wilt thou return ? 

Along thine own pure air, 
There are young sweet voices borne— 

Oh ! should not thine be there / 

Still at thy father's board 

There is kept a place for thee ; 

And, by thy smile restored, 
Joy round the hearth shall be. 

Still hath thy mother's eye. 

Thy coming step to greet, 
A look of days gone by. 

Tender and gravely sweet. 

Still, when the prayer is said. 
For thee kind bosoms yearn, 

For theo kind tears are shed — 
Oh ! when wilt thou return • 

19* 



(222) 



LET HER DEPART. 

Her home is far, oh ! far away ! 

The clear light in her eyes 
Hath haught to do with earthly day, 

'Tis kindled from the skies. 
Let her depart ! 

She looks upon the things of earth, 

Even as some gentle star 
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, 

How softly, yet how far ! 
Let her depart ! 

Her spirit's hope — ^her bosom's love — 
Oh ! could they mount and fly ! 

She never sees a wandering dove, 
But for its wings to sigh. 

Let her depart ! 

She never hears a soft wind bear 

Low music on its way, 
But deems it sent from heavenly air, 

For her who cannot stay. 
Let her depart ! 

Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams. 
She breathes and moves alone, 

Pming for those bright bowers and streams 
Where her beloved is gone. 
Let her depart ! 



(223) 



SONG OF EMIGRATION. 

There was heard a song on the chiming sea, 

A mingled breathing of grief and glee ; 

Man's voice, mibroken by sighs, was there, 

Filling with triumph the sunny air ; 

Of fresh green lands, and of pastures new, 

It sang, wh'le the bark through the surges flew 

But ever and anon 

A murmur of farewell 
Told by its plaintive tone. 

That from woman's lip it fell. 

»« Away, away, o'er the foaming main ! " 

This was the free and the joyous strain — 

«< There are clearer skies than ours, afar, 
We will shape oiu- course by a brighter star ; 
There are plains whose verdure no foot hath 

press'd, 
And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest. '~ 

"But alas ! that we should go," 
— Sang the farewell voices then — 

'' From the homesteads, warm and low, 
By the brook and in the glen ! " 

'« We will rear new homes under trees that glow 
A.S if gems were fruitage of every bough ; 



( 224 ) 

O'er our white walls we will train the vine, 
And sit in its shadow at day's decline ; 
And watch our herds, as they range at will 
Through the green savannas, all bright and still." 

" But woe for that sweet shade 
Of the flowering orchard trees. 

Where first our children play'd 
'Midst the birds and honey bees." 

' * All, all our own shall the forests be. 

As to the bound of the roebuck free ! 

None shall say, ' Hither, no further pass ! ' 

We will track each step through the wavy grass , 

We will chase the elk in his speed and might. 

And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night." 

" But oh ! the grey church tower. 
And the sound of Sabbath bell, 

And the shelter'd garden bower, — 
We have bid them all farewell ! " 

" We will give the names of our fearless race 
To each bright river whose course we trace ; 
And will leave our mem'ry with mounts and floods, 
And the path of our daring in boundless woods. 
And our works unto many a lake's green shore, 
Where the Indian graves lay, alone, before." 

'' But who shall teach the flowers. 
Which our children loved, to dwell 

In a soil that is not ours ? 

— Home, home and friends, farewell ! " 



(225) 



THE TRUMPET. 

Thi, tj Limpet's voice hath roused the land— 

Light up the beacon-pyre ! — 
A hundred hills have seen the brand, 

And waved the sign of fire. 
A hundred banners to the breeze, 

Their gorgeous folds have cast — 
And, hark ! was that the sound of seas ? 

A king to war went past. 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasant by his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call. 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son, 

Looks with a boding eye — 
They come not back, though all be won, 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en for th-e marriage altar crown'd, 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear^ 

By earthly clarion spread ! — 
How \^«^il it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead ? 



226) 



DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION. 

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born 

Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain ; 
Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, 

A cloud-like weeping train ; 
Through the long day they dimm'd the autumn 

gold 
3n all the glistening leaves ; and wildly rolPd, 
When the last farewell flush of light was 
glowing 
Across the sunset sky ; 
O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing 
One melancholy dye. 

And when the solemn Night 
Came rushing with her might 
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown, 
Then with each fitful blast 
Prophetic murmurs pass'd. 
Wakening or answering some deep Sibyl tone. 
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise 
With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp 
flies. 

*' Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, " and strivf 

no more. 
Faint spirit, strive no more ! — for thee too strong 

Are outward will and wrong. 
And inward wasting fires ! — Thou canst not soaj 



(227) 

Free on a starry way 
Beyond their blighting sway, 
At Heaven's high gate serenely to adore ! 
How shouldst thou hope Earth's fetters to 

unbind ? 
passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the 
wind ! 

" Never shall aught but broken music flow 
From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe ; 
Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh, 
From the reeds hollow shaken, 
When sudden breezes waken 
Their vague wild symphony : 
No power is theirs, and. no abiding place 
In human hearts ; their sweetness leaves no trace- 
Born only so to die ! 

" Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain, 
On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour. 
From thy bruised life again 
A moment's essence breathe ; 
Thy life, whose trampled flower 
Into the blessed wreath 
Of household charities no longer bound, 
liies pale and withering on the barren ground. 

'« So fade, fade on ! thy gift of love shall clir.ig, 
A coiling sadness, round thy heart and brain, 

A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, 
All sensitive to pain ! 

And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall 

O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkening pall. 



(228) 

Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink siiLduedj 
In cold and. unrepining quietude ! " 

Then my soul yielded ; spells of numbing breath 
Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of death, 
Its powers, like leaves before the night rain, 
closing ; 
And, as by conflict of wild sea- waves toss'd 
On the chill bosom of some desert coast, 
Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing. 

When silently it seem'd 

As if a soft mist gleam'd 
Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling, 

To many a shape and hue 

Of vision'd beauty grew. 
Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. 
Oh ! the rich scenes that o'e^r mine inward eye 

Unrolling then swept by. 
With dreamy motion ! Silvery seas were there 
Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch'd by skies 
Of southern midnight's most transparent dyes, 
And gemm'd with many an island, wildly fair, 
Which floated past me into orient day. 
Still gathering lustre on th' illumin'd way, 
Till its high groves of wondrous flowering trees 

Color'd the silvery seas. 

And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose, 

Height above spiry height ! 
A soaring solitude of woods and snows. 

All steep'd in golden light .' 



fr^ 



( 229 ) 

While as it pass'd, those regal peaks unveiling, 

I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings 
And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing, 

From lyres that quiver'd through ten thousani 
strings : 
Or as if waters forth to music leaping, 

From many a cave the Alpine Echo's hall. 
On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, 

Link'd in majestic anthems ! while through all 
That billowy swell and fall. 
Voices, like ringing crystal, fiU'd the air 

With inarticulate melody, that stirr'd 

My being's core ; then, moulding into word 
Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise and bear 

In that great choral strain my trembling part 
Of tones, by love and faith struck from a human 
heart. 

Return no more, vain bodings of the night ! 

A happier oracle within my soul 
Hath svveli'd to power ; — a clear unwavering 
light [me roll 

Mounts through the battling clouds that round 
And to a new control 
Nature's full harp gives forth rejoicing tcnes, 

Wherein my glad sense owns 
The accordant rush of elemental sound 
To one consummate harmony profound ; 
One grand Creation Hymn, 
Whose notes the seraphim 
Lift to the glorious height of music wing'd an<r 
crown'd. 
20 



(230) 

Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, 
Faithful though faint? — Shall not my spiiit'i 

fire, 
If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend 
Now to its fount and end ? 
Shall not my earthly love, all purified, 
Shine forth a heavenward guide ? 
An angel of bright power ?^-and strongly bear 
My being upward into holier air, 
Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode, 
And the sky's temple-arch o'erflows with God ? 

The radiant hope new-born 

Expands like rising morn 
In my life's life : and as a ripening rose 
The crimson shadow of its glory throws 
More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream , 

So from that hope are spreading 

Rich hues, o'er nature shedding, 
Each day, a clearer, spiritual gleam. 

Let not those rays fade from me — once enjoy 'd, 

Father of spirits ! let them not depart ! 
Leaving the chili'd earth, without form and void 

Darken'd by mine own heart ! 
L ft, aid, sustain me ! Thou, by whom alone 

All lovely gifts and pure 

In the soul's grasp endure ; 
Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne 
All knowledge flows — a sea for evermore 
Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore- 
O consecrate my life ! that I may sing 
Of Thee with joy that hath a living sj>ring^ 



(231) 

In a full heart of music ! — Let my lays 
Through the resounding mountains waft thy 

praise, 
And with that theme the wood's green cloisters 

fill, 
And make their quivering leafy dimness thrill 
To the rich breeze of song ! Oh ! let me wake 

The deep religion which hath dwelt from 
yore, 
Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake, 

And wildest river shore ! 
And let me summon all the voices dwelling 
Whose eagles build, and cavern'd rills are welling, 
And where the cataract's organ-peal is swelling. 

In that one spirit gather 'd to adore ! 

Forgive, O Father ! if presumptuous thought 

Too daringly in aspiration rise ! 
Let not thy child all vainly have been taught 

By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs 
Of sad confession ! — lowly be my heart. 

And on its penitential altar spread 
The offerings worthless, till thy grace impart 

The fire from Heaven, whose touch alone can 
shed 
Life, radiance, virtue ! — let that vital spark 
Pierce my whole being, wilder'd else and dark ! 

Thine are all holy things — O make me Thine, 
So shall I, too, be pure — a living shrine 
Unto that spirit which goes forth from Thee, 
Strong and divinely free, 



(232) 

Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight, 
And brooding o'er them with a dove-like wing, 
Till thought, word, song, to Thee in worship 
spring, — 

tinmortality endow'd for liberty and light. 



TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 

Forget them not : — though now their name 

Be but a mournful sound. 
Though by the hearth its utterance claim 

A stillness round. 



Though for their sake this earth no more 

As it hath been may be, 
And shadows, never mark'd before, 

Brood o'er each tree : 



And though their image dim the sky, 

Yet, yet forget them not ! 
Nor, where their love and life went by, 

Forsake the spot ] 

They have a breathing influence there, 
A charm not elsewhere found ; 

Sad — yet it sanctifies the air. 
The stream — the gromid 



(233) 

Then, though the wind an alter'd tone 
Through the young fohage bear, 

l^hough every flower, of something gccic 
A tinge may wear ; 

Oh ! fly it not ! — no fruitless grief 

Thus in their presence felt^ 
A record links to every leaf 

There, where they dwelt. 

Still trace the path which knew their tread, 

Still tend their garden-bovver. 
Still commune with the holy dead 

In each lone hour ! 



The holy dead ! — oh ! bless'd we are, 

That we may call them so, 
And to their image look afar, 

Through all our woe ! 

Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth, 

As relics we may hold. 
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worthi 

By springs untold ! 

Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power 

Thus o'er our souls is given. 
If but to bird, or song, or flower, 

Yet all for Heaven ! 
20* 



(234) 



MOZART'S REaUIEM, 

A REQ,uiEM ! — and for whom ? 

For beauty in its bloom ? 
For valor fallen — a broken rose or sword ? 

A dirge for king or chief, 

With pomp of stately grief, 
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored ? 

Not so, it is not so ! 

That warning voice I know. 
From other worlds a strange mysterious tone ; 

A solemn funeral air 

It call'd me to prepare. 
And my heart answer'd secretly — my own ! 

One more then, one more strain, 

In links of joy and pain 
Mighty the troubled spirit to enthral ! 

And let me breathe my dower 

Of passion and of power 
FuL into that deep lay — the last of all ! 

The last ! — and I must go 

From this bright world below. 
This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound ! 

Must leave its festal skies, 

With all their melodies, 
That evei in my breast glad echoes found ! 



( 235 ) 

Yet have I known it long ; 

Too restless and too strong [flame ; 

Within this clay hath been the o'ermasteririg 

Swift thoughts, that came and went, 

Like torrents o'er me sent, 
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. 

Like perfumes on the wind, 

Which none may stay or bind, 
The beautiful comes floating through my soul ; 

I strive with yearnings vain, 

The spirit to detain 
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll ! 

Therefore disturbing dreams 

Trouble the secret streams 
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast : 

Something far more divine 

Than may on earth be mine. 
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest 

Shall I then fear the tone 

That breathes from worlds unknown ? — 
Surely these feverish aspirations there 

Shall grasp their full desire, 

And this unsettled fire, 
Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 

Once more then, one more stram, 

To earthly joy and pain 
A nch, and deep, and passionate farewell ! 

I pour each fervent thought 

With fear, hope, trembling fraught, 
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell 



^236 1 



THE FUNERAL GENIUS ; AN ANCIENT 
STATUE. 

Thou shouldsf be look'd on when the starlight falls 
Through the blue stillnt^s of the summer-air, 
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls — 
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare ! 
And thou ! — thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems 
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. 

Flowers are upon thy brow ; for so the dead 
Were crown'd of old, with pale spring flowers 

like these : 
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk ; yet softly shed, 
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze : 
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom 
Which of the grove seems breathing — ^not the 

tomb. 

They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious 

thought 
Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee ! 
They who thy wreath and pallid roses wrought, 
And laid thy head against the forest tree, 
As that of one, by music's dreamy close, 
On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose. 

They fear'd not death ! — yet who shall say his 

touch 
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair ? 



(237; 

Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 

Of tender beauty as thy features wear ? 

Thou sleeper of the bower ! on whose young 

eyes 
So still a night, a night of summer, lies ! 

Had they seen aught like thee ? — Did some fair 

boy 
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest ? 
— His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy. 
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppressed : 
And his eye veiPd so softly by its fringe, 
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge ! 

Oh ! happy, if to them the one dread hour 
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine ! 
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power 
C£mie by a look so tranquilly divine ! 
— Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part, 
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart ! 

But thou, fair slumberer ! was there less of woe, 

Or love, or terror, in the days of old, 

That men- pour'd out their gladdening spirit's 

flow. 
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold. 
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy King, 
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting ? 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we — for loftier faith is oms ! 
Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made 
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, 



(238) 

With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs 

array'd, 
And lovely sculptm-e gleaming through t^o 

shade. 

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed 
O'er its dim precincts? — do we not intrust 
But for a time, its chambers with our dead, 
And strew immortal seed upon the dust ? 
—Why should we dwell on that which ^ies 

beneath. 
When living light hath toucL'd the brow ol 

death ? 



THE GRAVES 0/ MARTYRS. 

The kings of old have shrine and tomb 
In many a minster's haughty gloom ; 
And green, along the ocean side, 
The mounds rise where heroers died ; 
But show me, on thy flowery breast. 
Earth ! where thy nameless martyrs rest < 

The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise, 
Have made one offering of their days ; 
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sakc^ 
Resign'd the bitter cup to take : 
And silently, in fearless faith. 
Bowing their noble souls to death. 



(239) 

Where sleep they Earth? — ^by no proud stone 

Their narrow couch of rest is known , 

The still sad glory of their name 

Hallows no mountain unto Fame ; 

No — not a tree the record bears 

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. 

Yet haply all around lie strew'd 

The ashes of that multitude : 

It may be that each day we tread, 

Where thus devoted hearts have bled , 

And the young flowers our children sow, 

Take root in holy dust below. 

O that the many-rustling leaves, 

Which round our homes the summer weaves 

Or that the streams, in whose glad voice 

Our own familiar paths rejoice, 

Might whisper through the starry sky, 

To tell where those blest slumberers lie ! 

Would not our inmost hearts be still 'd, 
With knowledge of their presence filPd, 
And by its breathings taught to prize 
The meekness of self-sacrifice ? 
— But the old woods and sounamg waves 
Are silent of those hidden graves. 

Yet what if no light footstep there 
In pilgrim-love and awe repair, 
So let it be ! — like him, whose clay 
Deep buried by his Maker lay, 
They sleep in secret, — but their sod, 
Unknown to man, is mark'd by God ! 



,240) 



THE IVY SONG. 

Oh ! how could fancy crown with thee, 

In ancient days the God of Wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 

Companion of the Vine ? 
Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 

Of revehy hath long been o'er, 
Where song and beaker once went roundj 

But now are known no more, 

Where long-fallen gods recline, 
There the place is thine. 

The Roman on his battle-plains. 

Where kings before his eagles bent. 
With thee, amidst exulting strains, 

Shadow'd the victor's tent : 
Though shining there in deathless green, 

Triumphally thy boughs might wave, 
Better thou lovest the silent scene 

Around the victor's grave — 

Urn and sculpture half divine 
Yield their place to thine. 

The cold halls of the regal dead, 

Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell; 

Where hollow sounds the lightest tread — 
Ivy ! they know thee well ! 



(241) 

A.nd fax atove the festal vine; 

Thou wavest where once-proud banners hung, 
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine, 
—The Rhine, still fresh and young ! 
Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine, 
Ivy ! all are thine ! 

High from the fields of air look down — 

Those eyries of a vanish'd race. 
Where harp, and battle, and renown, 

Have pass'd, and left no trace. 
But thou art there ! — serenely bright. 

Meeting the mountain storms with bloom 
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 

Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 
Ivy, Ivy ! all are thine. 
Palace, hearth, and shrine. 

'Tis still the same ; our pilgrim tread 

O'er classic plains, through deserts free. 
On the mute path of ages fled. 

Still meets decay and thee. 
And still let man his fabrics rear, 

August in beauty, stern in power, 
—Days pass — thou Ivy never sere, 

And thou shalt have thy dower. 

All are thine, or must be thine— 
Temple, pillar, shrine ! 

21 



\JZZ 






^242) 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH SONG. 

Mournfully, sing mournfully, 

And die away my heart ! 
The rose, the glorious rose is gone. 

And I, too, will depart. 

The skies have lost their splendor, 
The waters changed their tone, 

And wherefore, in the faded world, 
Should music linger on ? 

Where is the golden sunshine, 

And where the flower-cup's glow i 

And where the joy of the dancing leavers, 
And the fountain's laughing flow ? 

A voice, in every whisper 

Of the wave, the bough, the air. 

Comes asking for the beautiful. 

And moaning, '' Where, oh ! where ? '* 

Tell of the brightness parted, 
Thou bee, thou lamb at play r 

Thou lark in thy victorious mirth ! 
— Are ye, too, pass'd away ! 

Mournfully, sing mournfully ! 

The royal rose is gone. 
Melt from the woods, my spirit, melt 

In one deep farewell tone ! 



(243) 

^ot so, swell forth triumphantly, 

The full, rich, fervent strain ! 
Hence with young love and life I go, 

In the summer's joyous train. 

With sunshine, with sweet odor, 

With every precious thing, 
Upon the last warm southern breeze 

My soul its flight shall wing. 

Alone I shall not linger. 

When the days of hope are past, 
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, 

To wait the rushing blast. 

Triumphantly, triumphantly ! 

Sing to the woods, I go ! 
For me, perchance, in other lands, 

The glorious rose may blow. 

The sky's transparent azure, 

And the greensward's violet breath. 

And the dance of light leaves in the wmd, 
May these know naught of death. 

No more, no more sing mournfully ! 

Swell high, then break, my heart ! 
With love, the spirit of the wind, 

W ith summer I depart. 



244) 



THE REYELLERS. 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ^ring out again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

They are here — the fair face and the carelesi 

heart. 
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. — ■ 
But I met a dimly mournful glance, 
In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh 
In a pause of the thrilling melody ! 
And it is not well that woe should breathe 
On the bright spring flowers of the festal wreath ! 
Ye that to thought or to grief belong. 
Leave, leave the hall of song ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ^but who art thou 

With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale, young 

brow. 
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes ? 
Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too 

well! 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell : 
Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures fortli, 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 
Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while, 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our songs for thee — 
Home with thy sorrows flee ! 



-1\ 



(245) 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 
But what dost thou with the revel's train ? 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats. 
But thou hast no part in the gladd'ning notes ; 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by, 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away, there's a void in thy yearning breast, 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest ? 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead ! 
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth, 
Back to thy silent hearth ! 



Ring, joyous chords ! — ring forth again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! — 

But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, 

And thy cup be crown'd vvrith the foaming wine, 

By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, 

By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled 

cloud, 
1 know thee ! it is but the wakeful fear 
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! 
I know thee ! — thou fearest the solemn night, 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's 

might ! 
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain 

woLildst shun, 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou — there's a dark weight on thine — 

away ! — 

Back to thy hom , and pray ! 
21* 



( 246 ) 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ^ring out again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

And bring fresh wreaths ! — we will banish all 

Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 

On ! through the maze of the fleeting dance, on ! — 

But where are the young and the lovely ? — gone ! 

Where are the brows with the Red Cross crown'd, 

And the floating forms with the bright zone 

bound ? 
And the waving locks and the flying feet, 
That still should be where the mirthful meet ? 
They are gone — they are fled — they are parted all : 
Alas ! the forsaken hall ! 



SONG OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 

Oh ! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love ! 

Mine still to be ! 
I bore through death, to brighter lands above, 

My thoughts of thee. 

Yes ! the deep memory of our holy tears, 

O'lr mingled prayer, 
Our suflerLng love, through long devoted years, 

Went with me there. 

It was not vain, the hallow'd and the tried — 

It was not vain ! 
Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, 

I watch again ! 



(247) 

From our own paths, oiu- love's attesting bowers, 

I am not gone ; 
In the deep calm of Midnight's whispering hours, 

Thou art not lone : 

Not lone, when by the haunted streams thou 
That stream whose tone [weepest, 

Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest. 
We two have known : 

Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking 

Of days long past, 
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking, 

Silent and fast : 

Not lone, when upwards, in fond visions turning 
Thy dreamy glance, [burning, 

Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars are 
O'er night's expanse. 

My home is near thee, loved one ! and around thee, 
Where'er thou art ; [thee, 

Though still mortality's thick cloud hath bound 
Doubt not thy heart ! 

Hear its xow voice, nor deem thyself forsaken — ■ 

Let faith be given 
To the still tones which oft our being waken 

They are of heaven ! 



(248) 



SWISS SONG, 

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE. 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet they gird a land 
Where Freedom's voice and step are found, 
Forget ye not the band, — 
The faithful band, our sires, who fell 
Here in the narrow battle dell ! 

If yet the wilds among, 

Our silent hearts may burn, 
When the deep mountain-horn hath rung, 
And home our steps may turn, — 
Home ! — home ! — if still that name be dear. 
Praise to the men who perish'd here ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

Up to their shining snows, 
That day the stormy rolling sound. 
The sound of battle, rose ! 
Their caves prolonged the trumpet's blast, 
Their dark pines trembled as it pass'd ! 

They saw the princely crest. 

They saw the knightly spear, 
The banner and the mail-clad breast, 
Borne down and trampled here ! 
They saw — and glorying there they stand. 
Eternal records to the land ! 






( 249 ) 

Praise to the mountain-born, 
The brethren of the glen ! 
By them no steel array was worn, 
They stood as peasant-men ! 
They left the vineyard and the field, 
To break an empire's lance and shield ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet, along their steeps, 
Our children's fearless feet may bound, 
Free as the chamois leaps : 
Teach them in song to bless the band 
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand ! 

If, by the wood-fire's blaze, 

When winter stars gleam cold, 
The glorious tales of elder days 
May proudly yet be told, 
Forget not then the shepherd race. 
Who made the hearth a holy place ! 

Look on the white Alps round! 

If yet the Sabbath-bell 
Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound. 
Think on the battle dell ! 
For blood first bathed its flowery sod, 
That chainless hearts might worship God ! 



^250) 



THE DIVER. 

.'J'hou hast been where the rocks of coral grow 
Thou hast fought with eddying waves ; — 

Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, 
Thou searcher of ocean's caves ! 

Thou hast look'd on the gleaming wealth of old 
And wrecks where the brave have striven : 

The deep is a strong and fearful hold, 
But thou its bar hast riven ! 

A wild and weary life is thine : 

A wasting task and lone, 
Though treasure-grots for thee may shin 

To all besides unknown ! 

A weary life ! but a swift decay 

Soon, soon shall set thee free ; 
Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away^ 

Thou wrestler with the sea ! 

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, 

Well are the death-signs read — 
<«o ! for the pearl in its cavein seek, 

Ere hope and power be fled ! 

And bright in beauty's coronal 

That glistening gem shall be ; 
A star to all in the festive hall — 

But who will think on thee ? 



(251; 

None ! — as it gleams from the queen-like head, 

Not one 'midst throngs will say, 
*' A life hath been like a rain-drop shed 

For that pale quivering ray." 

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought ! 

— And are not those like thee, 
Who win for earth the gems of thought ? 

O wrestler with the sea ! 

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go 
Where the passion-fountains burn, 

Gathermg the jewels far below 
From many a buried urn : 

Wringing from lava veins the fire, 
That o'er bright words is pour'd ; 

Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre 
A spirit in- each chord. 

But, oh ! the price of bitter tears. 

Paid for the lonely power 
That throws at last o'er desert years, 

A dai'kly glorious dower ! 

Like flower seeds, by the wild wind spread, 

So radiant thoughts are strew 'd ; 
— The soul whence those high gifts are shed, 

May faint in solitude ! 

And who will think, when the strain is sung 
Till a thousand hearts are stirr'd. 

What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung, 
Have gush'd with every word ? 



(252) 

None, none ! — ^his treasures live like thine, 

He strives and dies like thee ; 
— Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 

O wrestler with the sea ! 



LEAVE ME NOT YET. 

Leave me not yet — through rosy skies from fax, 
But now the song-birds to their nests return ; 

The quivering image of the first pale star 
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn : 

Leave me not yet ! 

Not yet ! oh, hark ! low tones from hidden streams, 
Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise ; 

Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams, 
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies • 

Leave me not yet ! 

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear 
love ! 
By day shut up in their own still recess, 
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above. 
Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness : 

Leave me not yet ! 



^ 253 ) 



THE WRECK. 

All night the booming minute-gun, 

Had peal'd along the deep, 
And mournfully the rising sun 

Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep. 
A barque from India's coral strand, 

Before the raging blast, 
Had veil'd her topsails to the sand, 

And bow'd her noble mast. 

The queenly ship ! — brave hearts had striven, 

And true ones died with her ! — 
We saw her mighty cable riven, 

Like floating gossamer. 
We saw her proud flag struck that morn, 

A star once o'er the seas — 
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn — 

And sadder things than these ! 

We saw her treasures cast away, — 

The rocks with pearls were sown, 
And strangely sad, the ruby's ray 

Flash'd out o'er fretted stone. 
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er. 

Like ashes by a breeze ; 
And gorgeous robes — ^but oh ! that shore 

Had sadder things than these ! 
22 



( 254 ) 

We saw the strong man still and low, 

A crush'd reed thrown aside \ 
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, 

Not without strife he died. 
And near him on the sea- weed lay — 

Till then we had not wept — 
But well our gushing hearts might say 

That there a mother slept ! 

For her pale arms a babe had press'd 

With such a wreathing grasp, 
Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast, 

Yet not undone the clasp. 
Her very tresses had been flung 

To wrap the fair child's form, 
Where still their wet long streamers hung 

All tangled by the storm. 

And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene, 

Gleam'd up the boy's dead face 
Like slumber's, trustingly serene, 

In melancholy grace. 
Deep in her bosom lay his head, 

With half-shut violet eye — 
He had known little of her dread, 

Naught of her agony ! 

Oh ! human love, whose yearning heart 
Through all things vainly true, 

So stamps upon the mortal part 
Its passionate adieu — 



-^. 



( 255 ) 

Surely thou hast another lot : 
There is some home for thee, 

Where thou shalt rest, rememb'ring noi 
The moaning of the sea ! 



O YE YOICES GONE. 

Oh ! ye voices gone, 
Sounds of other years, 

Hush that haunting tone. 
Melt me not to teai's ! 

All around forget, 

All who love you well, 
Yet, sweet voices, yet 

O'er my soul ye swell. 



igr 



With the winds of sprin< 
With the breath of flowers, 

Floating back, ye bring * 

Thoughts of vanish'd hour* 

Hence your music take, 
Oh ! ye voices gone . 

This lone heart ^''e make 
But more deeply lone. 



5256) 



THE SOLDIER'S DEATH-BED. 

liiKE THEE TO DIE, THOU SUN ! — ^My boyhood's 

dream 
Was this ; and now my spirit, with thy beam, 
Ebbs from a field of victory ! — yet the hour 
Bears back upon me, with a torrent's power. 
Nature's deep longings : — Oh ! for some kind eye 
Wherein to meet love's fervent farewell gaze ; 
Some breast to pillow life's last agony, 
Some voice, to speak of hope and brighter days, 
Beyond the pass of shadows ! — But I go, 
I, that have been so loved, go hence alone ; 
And ye, now gathering round my own hearth's 

glow, 
Sweet friends ! it may be that a softer tone. 
Even in this moment, with your laughing glee. 
Mingles its cadence while you speak of me : 
Of me, your soldier, 'midst the mountains lying, 
On the red banner of his battles dying. 
Far, far away ! — and oh ! your parting prayer — 
Will not his name be fondly murmur 'd there ? 
It will ! — A blessing on that holy hearth ! 
Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its 

mirth. 
Mother ! 1 may not hear thy voice again ; 
Sisters ! ye watch to greet my step in vain ; 
Young brother, fare thee well ! — on each dear 

head 
Blessing and love a thousand fold be shed, 



-.^^— ::/ 



V 257 ) 

My soul's last earthly breathings ! — May yoiii 

home 
Smile for you ever ! — May no winter come, 
No world between your hearts ! — May even your 

tears, 
For mv sake, full of long-remember'd years, 
Quicken J.ie true affections that entwine 
Your lives in one bright bond ! — I may not sleep 
Amidst our fathers, where those tears might 

shine 
Over my slumbers : yet your love will keep 
My memory living in the ancestral halls. 
Where shame hath never trod : — the dark night 

falls. 
And I depart. — The brave are gone to rest. 
The brothers of my combats, on the breast 
Of the red field they reap'd : — their work is 

done — 
Thou, too, art set ! — farewell, farewell, thou sun ! 
The last lone watcher of the bloody sod, 
Offers a trusting spirit up to God. 



THE BIRD AT SEA. 

Bird of the greenwood ! 

O ! why art thou here ? 
Leaves dance not o'er thee, 

Flowers bloom not near. 

22* 



(258) 

All the sweet waters 
Far hence are at play — 

Bird of the greenwood ! 
Away, away ! 

Where the mast quivers, 

Thy place will not be, 
As 'midst the waving 

Of wild rose and tree. 
How should'st thou battle 

With storm and with spray ? 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

Or art thou seeking 

Some brighter land, 
Where by the south wind 

Vine leaves are fann'd ? 
'Midst the wild billows 

Why then delay? 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

'' Chide not my lingermg 

Where storms are dark ; 
A hand that hath nursed me 

Is in the bark ; 
A heart that hath cherish'd 

Through winter's long ddy^ 
So I turn from the greenwood, 

Away, away ! 



(259) 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

Gloom is upon thy silent hearth, 

silent house ! once fill'd with mirth ; 
Sorrow is in the breezy sound 

Of thy tall poplars whispering round. 

The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thy early flowers ; 
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze, 
Mine own sweet home of other days! 
My children's birth-place ! yet for me, 
It is too much to look on thee. 

Too much ! for, all about thee spread, 

1 feel the memory of the dead, 
And almost linger for the feet 

That never more my step shall meet. 

The looks, the smiles, all vanish'd now, 
Follow me where thy roses blow ; 
The echoes of kind household words 
Are with me 'midst thy singing birds. 

Till my heart dies, it dies away 
In yearnings for what might not stay ; 
For love which ne'er deceived my trust, 
For all which went with "dust to dust." 



( 260 ) 

What now is left me, but to raise 
From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's gaze, 
To lift through tears my straining eye 
Up to my Father's house on high ? 

Oh ! many are the mansions there, 
But not in one hath grief a share ! 
No haunting shade from things gone by. 
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky. 

And they are there, whose long-loved mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread ; 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rose. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears. 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres ! 
Under the poplar boughs I stand, 
And mourn the broken household band. 

But by your life of lowly faith, 
And by your joyful hope in death. 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore, 
The sever 'd wreath is bound once more ! 



(261) 

Holy ye were, and good, and true ! 

No change can cloud my thoughts of you • 

Guide me like you to live and die, 

And reach my Father's house on high ! 



CORINNA AT THE CAPITOL. 

Daughter of th' Italian heaven ! 
Thou, to whom its fires are given. 
Joyously thy car hath roU'd 
Where the conqueror's pass'd of old ; 
And the festal sun that shone, 
O'er three hundred triumphs gone, 
Makes thy day of glory bright 
With a shower of golden light. 

Now thou tread'st th' ascending road 
Freedom's foot so proudly trode ; 
While, from tombs of heroes borne, 
From the dust of empire shorn, 
Flowers upon thy graceful head, 
Chaplets of all hues, are shed. 
In a soft and rosy train, 
Touch 'd with many a gem-like stain. 
Thou hast gain'd the summit now ! 
Music hails thee from below ; 
Music, whose rich notes might stir 
Ashes of the sepulchre ; 



-^1 



(262) 

Shaking with victorious notes 
All the bright air as it floats. 
Well may woman's heart beat high 
Unto that proud harmony ! 



Now afar it rolls — ^it dies — 
And thy voice is heard to rise 
With a low and lovely tone 
In its thrilling power alone ; 
And thy lyre's deep silvery string, 
Touch'd as by a breeze's wing, 
Murmurs tremblingly at first, 
Ere the tide of rapture burst. 

All the spirit of thy sky 
Now hath lit thy large dark eye, 
And thy cheek a flush hath caught 
From the joy of kindled thought ; 
And the burning words of song 
From thy lip flow fast and strong, 
With a rushing stream's delight 
In the freedom of its might. 

Radiant daughter of the sun ! 
Now thy living wreath is won. 
Crown'd of Rome ! — Oh ! art thou not 
Happy in that glorious lot ? — 
Happier, happier far than thou. 
With the laurel on thy brow, 
She that makes the humblest hearth 
Lo'^ely but to one on earrh ! 



(263) 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 

Oh ! many a voice is thine, thou Wind ! full 

many a voice is thine, 
From every scene thy wing o'ers weeps thou 

bear'st a sound and sign ; 
A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a 

mastery all thine own, 
And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind ! that gives 

the answering tone. 

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where 

shiver'd helmets lie, 
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a 

clarion in the sky ; 
A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of 

stormy drums ; 
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader 

comes. 

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their 

wastes brought back 
Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery 

of thy track — 
The chime of low soft southern waves on some 

green palmy shore, 
The hollow roll of distant surge, the garner'd 

billows' roar. 



(264) 

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou 

mighty rushing Wind ! 
And thou bearest all their unisons in one full 

swell combined ; 
The restless pines, the moaning stream, all 

hidden things and free, 
Of the dim old sounding wilderness, have lent 

their soul to thee. 



Thou art come from cities lighted up for the 

conqueror passing by, 
Thou art wafting from their streets a sound ot 

haughty revelry ; 
The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings 

in the hall. 
The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise 

and fall. 

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines 

from ancient minsters vast. 
Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy 

lonely wing hath pass'd ; 
Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy swell, 

and the stately dirge's tone, 
For a chief, with sword, and shield, and he'm, 

to his place of slumber gone. 

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes 
wherein our young days flew, 

Thou hast found sweet voices lingerirg there, 
the 1 >ved, the kind, the true ; 



rt*= 



(265) 

Thou callest back those melodies, though now 

all changed and fled — 
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music 

from the dead ! 

Are all these notes in thee, wild Wind -* these 

many notes in thee ? 
Far in our own unfathom'd souls their fount 

must surely be ; 
Yes ! buried, but unsleeping, there thought 

watches, memory lies. 
From whose deep urn the tones axe pour'd 

through all earth's harmonies. 



THE DEATH DAY OF KORNER. 

A SONG for the death day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
The youth went down to a hero's grave, . 

With the Sword, his bride. 

He went, with his noble heart unworn, 

And pure, and high ; 
An eagle stooping from clouds of morr. 

Only to die. 

He went with the .yre, whose ofty tone 

Beneath his hand 
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone, 

And his father-land. 
23 



(266) 

And with all his glorious feelings yet 

In their first glow, 
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met 

To chain its flow. 

A song for the death day of the brave— 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the Sword, his bride. 

He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays 

To turn the flight, 
And a guiding spirit for after days, 

Like a watchfire's light. 

And a grief in his father's soul to rest, 

'Midst all high thought ; 
And a memory unto his mother's breast 

With healing fraught. 

And a name and fame above the blight 

Of earthly breath, 
Beautiful — beautiful and bright, 
' In life and death ! 

A song for the death day of the brave — » 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave 

With the Sword, his bride ! 



(267) 



THE LAST WISH. 

Go to the foi est shade, 

Seek thou the well known glade, 

Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, 
Gleaming through moss-tufts keep. 
Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep, 

And bathed in hues of Summer's midnight sky. 

Bring me their buds, to shed 

Around my dying bed 
A breath of May and of the wood's repose : 

For I, in sooth, depart 

With a reluctant heart, 
That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. 

^Fain would I stay with thee — 
, Alas ! this may not be ; 

Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours ! 
Go where the fountain's breast 
Catches, in glassy rest, [bowers. 

The dim green light that pours through lauiel 

I know how softly bright, 

Steep'd in that tender light, 
The water-lilies tremble there e'en now -, 

Go to the pure stream's edge, 

And from its whisp'ring sedge 
Bring me those flowers to cool my fever'd brow f 



( 268 ) 

Then, as in Hope's young dtvys, 
Track thou the antique maze 

Of the rich garden to its grassy mound ; 
There is a lone white rose, 
Shedding in sudden snows, 

J Is faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. 



Well know'st thou that fair tree — 

A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honey'd lime above ; 

Bring me one pearly flower 

Of all its clustering shower — 
For on that spot we first reveal'd our love. 

Gather one woodbine bough, 

Then, from the lattice low 
Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark, 

When by the hamlet last. 

Through dim wood lanes we pass'd, 
While dews were glancing to the glow worm's 
spark. t 

Haste ! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things and fair ; 

My hand no more may bind them up at eve — 
Yet shall their odor soft 
One bright dream round me waft 

Of life^ youth, summer — ^all that I must leave ! 

And, oh ! if thou would'st ask 
Wherefore thy steps I task, 



(269) 

The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace- 
'Tis that some thought of me, 
When 1 am gone, may be 

The spirit bound to each familiar place. 

I bid mine image dwell 

(Oh ! break not thou the spell !) 
In the deep wood and by the fountain side 

Thou must not, my beloved ! 

Rove where we two have roved. 
Forgetting her that in her Spring-time died ! 



THE PALMER. 

Art thou come from the far-off land at last ? 

Thou hast wander'd long ! [pass'd 

Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath 

With the merry voice of song. 

For the sunny glance and the bounding heart 
Thou wilt seek — but all are gone ; 

They are parted e'en as waters part, 
To meet in the deep alone ! 

And thou — from thy lip is fled the glow, 
From thine eye the light of morn ; 

And the shades of thought o'erhang thy brew 
A.nd thy cheek with life is worn. 
23* 



( 270 ) 

Say what hast thou brought from the distant shore 

For thy wasted youth to pay ? 
Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more ? 

Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way ? 

'' I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand, 
Yet I call not my bright youth lost ! 

I have won but high thought in the Holy Land, 
Yet I count not too dear the cost ! 

^' I look on the leaves of the deathless tree — 

These records of my track ; 
And better than youth in its flush of glee, 

Are the memories they give me back ! 

<' They speak of toil, and of high emprise, 

As in words of solemn cheer, 
They speak of lonely victories 

O'er pain, and doubt, and fear. 

'' They speak of scenes which have now become 

Bright pictures in my breast ; 
Where my spirit finds a glorious home, 

And the love of my heart can rest. 

" The colors pass not from these away. 

Like tints of shower or sun ; 
Oh ! beyond all treasiues that know decay, 

Is the wealth my soul hath won ! 

*' A rich light thence o'er my life's decline, 

An inborn light is cast ; 
For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine, 

I bewail not my bright days past ! " 



(271) 



THE SULIOTE MOTHER 

She stood upon the loftiest peak, 

Amidst the clear blue sky : 
A bitter smile was on her cheek, 

And a dark flash in her eye. 

" Dost thou see them, boy ? — ^through the dusky 

pines 
Dost thou see where the foeman's armor shines ? 
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's 

crest ? 
My babe, that I cradled on my breast ! 
Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms 

with joy? 
— That sight hath cost thee a father, boy ! " 

For in the rocky strait beneath. 

Lay Suliote sire and son : 
They had heap'd high the piles of death 

Before the pass was won. 

'' They have cross'd the torrent, and on they 

come ! 
Woe for the mountain hearth and home ! 
There, where the hunter laid by his spear, 
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, 
There, where I sang thee, fair babe ! to sleep, 
Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall 

keep ! " 



And now the horn's loud blast was heard, 

And now the cymbal's clang, 
Till even the upper air was stirr'd, 

As cliff and hollow rang. 

" Hark ! they bring music, my joyous child ' 
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild ! 
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, 
As if at a glance of thine armed sire ? — 
Still ! — ^be thou still ! — there are brave men low — > 
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now ! 

»>» 
But nearer came the clash of steel, 

And louder swell 'd the horn. 
And farther yet the tambour's peal 
Through the dark pass was borne. 

^' Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth ? — 
Boy ! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,— 
Free, and how cherish'd, my warrior's son ! 
He too hath bless'd thee, as I have done ! 
Aye, and unchain'd must his loved ones be — 
Freedom, young Suliote ! for thee and me '. '' 

And from the arrowy peak she sprung 
And fast the fair child bore : — 

A veil upon the wind was flung, 
A cry: — and all was o'er ! 



(273) 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 

h ND is there glory from the heavens departed ? 

O void immark'd ! — thy sisters of the sky 
Still hold their place on high, [started, 

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath 

Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye ! 

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night ? 

She wears her crown of old magnificence, 
Though thou art exiled thence — 
No desert seems to part those urns of light, 

'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. 

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning — 
The shepherd greets them on his mountains 
And from the silvery sea [free ; 

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning — 
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned 
for thee. 

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, 
Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, 
Swept by the wind away ? 

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, 
And was there power to smite them with decay ? 

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven ? 

Bow'd be our hearts to think on what we are, 
When from its height afar 
A world sinks thus — and yon majestic heaven 

Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star ! 



274) 



GERTRUDE ; OR, FIDELITY TILL 
DEATH. 

Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised 

The breeze threw back her hair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed — 

All that she loved was there. 
The night was round her clear and cold, 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

"And bid me not depart," she cried, 

" My Rudolph, say not so ! 
This is no time to quit thy side. 

Peace, peace ! I cannot go. 
Hath the world aught for me to fear. 

When death is on thy brow ? 
The world ! what means it ? — ^mine is here-— 

I will not leave thee now. 

'' I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
Doubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me through this ! 
And thou mine honor'd love and true, 

Bear on, bear nobly on, 
We have the bless'd heaven in view, 

Whose rest shall soon be won." 



(275) 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart ? 
Through all that night of bitterest woe, 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh ! with such a glazing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek — 
TiOve, love ! of mortal agony, 

Thou, only thou shouldst speak ! 



The wind rose high, — but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear : 
Perchance that dark hour brought repose 

To happy bosoms near ; 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 



She wiped the death-damps from his brow, 

With her pale hands and soft. 
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low, 

Had stilPd his heart so oft. 
She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 

She bathed his lips with dew. 
And on his cheek such kisses press'd 

As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

Oh ! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last ! 
She had her meed — one smile in death — 

And his worn spirit pass'd. 



^^r?* 



( 276 ) 

While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot, 
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave 

Strength to forsake it not ! 



ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE 
VIRGIN. 

In the deep hour of dreams, [sea, 

Through the dark woods, and past the moaning 

And by the star-light gleams, 
Mother of Sorrows ! lo, I come to thee. 

Unto thy shrine I bear 
Night-blooming flowers, like my own heart, to lie 

All, all unfolded there. 
Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye. 

For thou, that once didst move, 
In thy still beauty, through an early home, 

Thou know'st the grief, the love, 
The fear of woman's soul ; to thee I come ! 

Many, and sad, and deep. 
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast ; 

Thou, too, couldst watch and weep — 
Hear, gentlest mother ! hear a heart oppress'd ! 

There is a wandering bark 
Bearing one from me o'er the restless waves ; 

Oh ! let thy soft eye mark 
His course ; be with him, Holiest, guide and save ' 



(277) 

My soul is on that way ; 
My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim, 

Through the long weary day, 
I walk, o'ershadow'd by vain dreams of him. 

Aid him, and me, too, aid ! 
Oh ! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess ! 

On thy weak child is laid 
The burden of too deep a tenderness. 

Too much o'er him is pour'd 
My being's hope — scarce leaving Heaven a part ; 

Too fearfully adored, 
Oh ! make not him the chastener of my heart ! 

I tremble with a sense 
Of grief to be ; I hear a warning low — 

Sweet mother ! call me hence ! 
This wild idolatry must end in woe. 

The troubled joy of life. 
Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known ; 

And, worn with feverish strife, 
Would fold its wings ;— take back, take back 
thine owii. 

Hark ! how the wind swept by ! 
The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave — 

Hope of the sailor's eye, 
And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save ! 

24 



^278) 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 

' Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child ? 
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roof 'd cabin, with lowly wall — 
Mine is a fair and a pillar'd hall. 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of pictures forever streams." 

'•' Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play^ 
Through the long bright hours of the summer 

day ; 
They find the red cup-moss where they climb, 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms 

they know — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

*' Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell, 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well j 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon. 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune. 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird, 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard.' 

f^ Oh ! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree, 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
[ dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 



( 379 ) 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Tlioii would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no 

more, 
Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 
Gome thou with me to the vineyards nigh, 
A.nd well pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

^' Is my mother gone from her home away ? — 
But I know that my brothers are there at play — 
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell, 
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well ; 
Or they launch their boats where the bright 

streams flow — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

'' Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
They have left the fern by the spring's green 

side. 
And the stream where the fairy barks were 

tried. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." 



'' Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill? — 
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still : 
And the red deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow- 
Lady, kind lady! O, let me go." 



-jj 



( 280) 



THE TWO MONUMENTS. 

Banners hung drooping from on high 

In a dim cathedral's nave, 
Making a gorgeous canopy 

O'er a noble, noble grave ! 

And a marble warrior's form beneath, 
With helm and crest array'd, 

As on his battle bed of death, 
Lay in their crimson shade. 

Triumph yet linger'd in his eye. 
Ere by the dark night seal'd. 

And his head was pillow 'd haughtily 
On standard and on shield. 

And shadowing that proud trophy pile 
With the glory of his wing 

An eagle sat ; — yet seem'd the while 
Panting through Heaven to spring. 

He sat upon a shiver'd lance. 
There by the sculptor bound ; 

But in the light of his lifted glance 
Was that which scorn'd the ground. 

And a burning flood of gem-like hues 
From a storied window pour'd. 

There fell, there centred, to suffuse 
The conqueror and his word. 



(281) 

A flood of hues ! — ^but one rich dye 

O'er all supremely spread, 
With a purple robe of royalty 

Mantling the mighty dead. 

Meet was that robe for him whose name 

Was a trumpet note in war, 
His pathway still the march of fame, 

His eye the battle star. 

But faintly, tenderly was throAvn 
Prom the color'd light one ray, 

Where a low and pale memorial stone 
By the couch of glory lay. 

Few were the fond words chisell'd there, 

Mourning for parted worth ; 
But the very heart of love and prayer 

Had given their sweetness forth. 

They spoke of one whose life had been 
As a hidden streamlet's course, 

Bearing on health and jo}^ unseen, 
From its clear mountain source : 

Whose young pure memory, lying deep 
'Midst rock, and wood, and hill. 

Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep, 
A soft light meek and still : 

Whose gentle voice too early call'd 

Unto Music's land away, 
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd 

By words of silvery sway. 
24* 



(283) 

These were his victories — yet enroll 'd 

In no hi^h song of fame, 
The pastor of the mountain-fold 

Left but to Heaven his name. 

To Heaven and to the peasant's hearth. 

A blessed household sound — 
And finding lowly love on earth, 

Enough, enough, he found ! 

Bright and more bright before me gleam'd 

That sainted image still ; 
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd 

The regal fane to fill. 

Oh ! how my silent spirit turn'd 
From those proud trophies nigh ; 

How my full heart within me burn'd 
Like Him to live and die ! 



PASSING AWAY 

It is written on the rose 

In its glory's full array — 
Read what those buds disclose — 

''Passing away." 

It is written on the skies 

Of the soft blue summer day ; 
It is traced in sunset's dyes — 

" Passing away." 



(283) 

It is written on the trees. 

As their young leaves glistening play, 
And on brighter things than these — 

" Passing away.'^ 

It is written on the brow 

Where the spirit's ardent ray 
Lives, burns, and triumphs now — 

" Passing away." 

It is written on the heart — 

Alas ! that there Decay 
Should claim from Love a part — 

" Passing away." 

Friends, friends ! — oh ! shall we meet 

In a land of purer day, 
Where lovely things and sweet 

Pass not away ? 

Shall we know each other's eyes, 

And the thoughts that in them lay, 
When we mingled sympathies — 

''Passing away?" 

Oh ! if this may be so. 

Speed, speed, thou closing day ! 
Ho ^v blest, from earth's vain show 

To pass away ? 



(284) 



THE BETTER LAND. 

*• I HEAR thee speak of the better land, 
'J^hou call'st its children a happy band ; 
Mother ! oh, where is that radiant shore ? 
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 
Is it Avhere the flower of the orange blows, 
And the fireflies glance through the myrtle 
boughs? " 
— " Not there, not there, my child ! " 

"Is it where the. feathery palm trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
And strange bright birds on their starry wings 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ? " 
— "Not there, not there, my child! " - 

" Is it far away, in some region old. 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
And the pearl gleams forth from the cora] 

strand ? — 
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ? " 
— " Not there, not there, my child ' " 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 



(285; 

Dreams cannot picture a world so fair- 
Sorrow and death may not enter there : 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb 
— " It is there, it is there, my child ! " 



EVENING SONG OF THE WEARV^ 

Father of Heaven and Earth ! 
I bless thee for the night, 
The soft, still night ! 
The holy pause of care and mirth, 
Of sound and light ! 

Now far in glade and dell, 
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell. 
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest — 
The bee's long murmuring toils are done, 
And I, the o'er wearied one, 
O'erwearied and o'erwrought, 
BI ess thee, O God, O Father of the oppress'd, 
With my last waking thought, 

In the still night ! 

Yes, ere I sink to rest, 

By the fire's dying light, 

Thou Lord of Earth and Heaven ! 

I bless thee, who hast given 
Unto life's fainting travellers, the night, 

The soft, still, holy night ! 



V286) 



THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS 
DUNGEON. 

Midnight, and silence deep ! 

The air is filPd with sleep, 
With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath ; 

The fix'd and solemn stars 

Gleam through my dungeon bars — 
Wake, rushing winds ! this breezeless calm is 
death ! 

Ye watch-fires of the skies ! 

The stillness of your eyes 
Looks too intensely through my troubled soul ; 

I feel this weight of rest 

An earth-load on my breast — 
Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and dark clouds 
roll ! 

I am your own, your child, 

O ye, the fierce, the wild. 
And kingly tempests ! — will ye not arise "^ 

Hear the bold spirit's voice, 

That knows not to rejoice 
But in the peal of your strong harmonies. 

By sounding ocean- waves, 
And dim Calabrian caves. 
And flashing torrents, I have been your mate ; 



(287) 

And with the rocking pines 
Of the olden Appenines, 
In your dark path stood fearless and elate : 

Your lightnings were as rods, 

That smote the deep abodes [free ; 

Of thought and vision — and the stream gush'd 
Come, that my soul again 
May swell to burst its chain — 

Bring me the music of the sweeping sea ! 

Within me dwells a flame, 

An eagle caged and tame, 
Till call'd forth by the harping of the blast , 

Then is its triumph's hour, 

It springs to sudden power 
As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast. 

Then, then, the canvass o'er, 

With hurried hand I pour 
The lava- waves and guests of my own soul ! 

Kindling to fiery life 

Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife — 
Wake, rushing Avinds, awake ! and, dark clouds, 
roU! 

Wake, rise ! the reed may bend. 

The shivering leaf descend, 
T^ne forest branch give way before your might ; 

But I, your strong compeer, 

Call, summon, Avait you here — 
Answer, my spirit ! — answer, storm and night ! 



(288) 



THE SONG OF NIGHT. 

I COME to thee, O Earth ! 
With all my gifts ! — ^for every flower sweet dew 
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 

Not one which glimmering lies 
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, 
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 

I come with every star ; 
Making thy streams, that on their noonday track, 
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back. 

Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace : — I shed 
Sleep through thy wood- walks, o'er the honey 

bee, 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's yomig 
glee, 
The hyacinth's meek head. 

On my own heart I lay 
The weary babe ; and sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 

The shadowing lids to play. 

I come with mightier things ! 
Who calls me silent ? I have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans, 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 



( 289 ) 

I waft them not alono 
F'l Din the deep organ of the forest shades, 
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, 

Till the bright day is done ; 

But in the human breast 
A tliousand still small voices I awake, 
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shako 

The mantle of its rest. 

I bring them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, 
From crush'd affections, which, though long 
o'erborne, 

Make their tones heard at last. 

I bring them from the tomb : 
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love 
They pass — though low as murmurs of a dove— 

Like trumpets through the gloom. 

I come with all my train ; 
Who calls me lonely ? — Hosts around me tread, 
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead — 

Phantoms of heart and brain ! 

Looks from departed eyes — 
These are my lightnings ! fill'd with anguish vain, 
Oi tenderness too piercing to sustain, 

They smite with agonies. 

I. that with soft control. 
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 
I am the avenging one ! — the arm'd, the strong — 

The searcher of the soul ! 
25 



( 290 ) 

I, that shower dewy light 
Through shimbering leaves, bring storms ? — the 

tempest-birth 
Of memory, thought, remorse ; — Be holy, Earth ! 

I am the solemn Night ! 



PARTING WORDS. 

Leave me, oh ! leave me ! — unto all below - 
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell : 
Thou makest those mortal regions, whence I go, 
Too mighty in their loveliness — farewell. 
That I may part in peace ! 

Leave me ! — thy footstep, with its lightest sound. 
The very shadow of thy waving hair, 
Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound, 
Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear — 
Oh ! bid the conflict cease ! 

I hear thy whisper — and the warm tears gush 
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart , 
Thou bid'st the peace, the reverential hush. 
The still submission, from my thoughts depart ; 
Dear one ! this must not be. 

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, 
The beauty of our free and vernal days ; 
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky— 
Oh ! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze ! 
Thou art all earth to me ! 



(291) 

Shut out the sunshine from my dymg room, 
The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the boe ; 
Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom ! 
They speak of love, of summer, and of thee, 
Too much — and death is here ! 

Doth our own spring make happy music now, 
From the old beach-roots flashing into day ? 
Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow ? 
Alas! vain thoughts! that fondly thus can stiay 
From the dread hour so near ! 

If I could but draw courage from the light 
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless ! 
— Not now ! 'twill not be now ! — my aching sight 
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness. 
Bearing all strength away ! 

Leave me ! thou comest between my heart and 

Heaven ! 
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die ! 
■ — Why must our souls thus love, and then be 

riven ? 
Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony ! 
— Oh, yet awhile delay ! 



IF THOU HAST CKUSH'D A FLOWER, 

If thou hast crush'd a flower, 
The root may not be blighted ; 

If thou hast quench 'd a lamp. 
Once more it may be lighted • 



(293) 

But on thy harp or on thy lute, 

The string which thou hast broken, 

Shall never in sweet sound again 
Give to thy touch a token ! 

If thou hast loosed a bird 

Wliose voice of song could cheer thee, 
Still, still he may be won 

From the skies to warble near thee : 
But if upon the troubled sea 

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, 
Hope not that wind or wave will bring 

The treasure back when needed. 

If thou hast bruised a vine, 

The summer's breath is healing. 
And its clusters yet may glow 

Through the leaves their bloom revealing ; 
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown 

With a bright draught fill'd — oh ! never 
Shall earth give back that lavish'd wealth 

To cool thy parch'd lips' fever ! 

The heart is like that cup, 

If thou waste the love it bore thee ; 
And like that jewel gone, 

Which the deep will not restore ftiee ; 
And like that string of harp or lute 

Whence the sweet sound is scatter'd,- 
Gently, oh ! gently touch the chords. 

So soon forever shatter 'd. 



293) 



LET US DEPART. 

Night hung on Salem's towers, 

And a brooding husli profound 
Lay where the Roman eagle shone, 

High o'er the tents around. 
The tents that rose by thousands, 

In the moonlight glimmering pale ; 
Like white waves of a frozen sea, 

Filling an Alpine vale. 
And the temple's massy shadow 

Fell broad, and dark, and still, 
In peace, as if the Holy One 

Yet watch'd his chosen hill. 
But a fearful sound was heard 

In that old fane's deepest heart, 
As if mighty wings rush'd by. 

And a dread voice raised the cry, 
^' Let us depart ! " 

Within the fated city 

E'en then fierce discord raved. 
Though o'er night's heaven the comet swonj 

Its vengeful token waved. 
There were shouts of kindred warfare 

Through the dark streets ringing high," 
Though every sign was full which toM 

Of the bloody vintage nigh. 
25* 



( 294 ) 

Though the wild red spears and arrows 

Of many a meteor host, 
Went flashing o'er the holy stars, 

In the sky now seen, now lost. 
And that fearful sound was heard 

[n the temple's deepest heart, 
As if mighty wings rush'd by, 

And a voice cried mournfully, 
" Let us depart ! " 

But within the fated city 

There was revelry that night ; 
The wine-cup and the timbrel note. 

And the blaze of banquet light. 
The footsteps of the dancer 

Went bounding through the hall, 
And the music of the dulcimer 

Summon'd to festival. 
While the clash of brother weapons 

Made lightning in the air, 
And tl e dying at the palace gates 

Lay down in their despair. 
And t lat fearful sound was heard 

At the Temple's thrilling heart, 
As if mighty Avings rush'd by, 

And a dread voice raised the cry> 
" Let us depart ! " 



.==ii 



(295) 



THE SUNBEAM. 

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall — 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea — 
Sunbeam ! what gift hath the world like thee ! 

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles ; 
Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles ; 
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, 
And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest shades, 
Thou art streaming on through their greeii 

arcades ; 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy 

glow, 
Like fireflies glance to the pools below. 

1 look'd on the mountains — a vapor lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array : 
Thou brakest forth, and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot — 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ; 
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell, 
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell 



( 296 ; 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou an, 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart : 
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
A tender smile on the ruin's head. 

Thou takest through the dim church aisle thy 

way, 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, 
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, 
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. 

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave. 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Sunbeam of summer ! oh, whas is like thee ? 
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! — 
One thing is like thee to mortals given. 
The faith touching all things with hues of 
heaven ! 



TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. 

How is it that before mine eyes, 

While gazing on thy mien. 
All my past years of life arise. 

As in a mirror seen ? 
What spell within thee hath been shrined. 
To image back my own deep mind ? 



(297) 

Even as a song of other times 

Can trouble memory's springs; 
Even as a sound of vesper-chimes 

Can wake departed things ; 
Even as a scent of vernal flowers 
Hath records fraught with vanished hours ;— 

Such power is thine ! — they come, the dead, 
From the grave's bondage free, 

And smiling back the changed ai'e led, 
To look in love on thee ; 

And voices that are music flowm 

Speak to me in the heart's full tone : 

Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress- 
The thoughts of happier years, 

And a vain gush of tenderness 
O'erflows in child-like tears ; 

A passion which I may not stay, 

A sudden fount that must have way. 

But thou, the while — oh! almost strange, 

Mine imaged self! it seems 
That on thy brow of peace no change 

Reflects my own swift dreams ; 
Almost I marvel not to trace 
Those lights and shadows in thy face. 

To see thee calm, while powers thus deep 

Affection — Memory — Grief — 
Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep 

O'er a frail aspen-leaf! 
O that the quiet of thine eye 
Might silk there when the storm goes by ! 



(298) 

Yet look thou still serenely on, 
And if sweet friends there be, 

That when my song and soul are gone 
Shall- seek my form in thee, — 

Tell them of one for whom 'twas best 

To flee away and be at rest ! 



ANCIENT BATTLE SONG. 

Pling forth the proud banner of Leon again ! 
Let the high word " Castile " go resounding 

through Spain ! 
And thou, free Asturias, encamp'd on the height. 
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight ! 
Wake, wake ! the old soil where thy children 

repose 
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes ! 

The voices are mighty that swell from the past, 
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast ; 
The ancient sierras give strength to our tread. 
Their pines murmur song where bright blood 

hath been shed. 
— Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, 
And shout ye " Castile ! to the rescue loi 

Spain ! " 



(399) 



A PARTING SONG. 

When wni ye think of me, my friends <• 

When will ye thin^ of me -*- 
When the last red light, the farewell day, 
From the rock and the river is passing away — 
When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught, 
And the heart grows burdened with tender 
thought — 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kind friends ! 
When will ye think of me ? — 
W'^hen the rose of the rich midsummer time 
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious prime — 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours 

fled, 
From the walks where my footsteps no more 
may tread ; 
Then let it be ! 

Wlien will ye think of me, sweet friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody — 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream — 

Then let it be ! 



\=z 



(300) 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends ! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone— 
As of a bird from a chain unbound, 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — 

So let it be. 



THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE. 

Come from the woods with the citron flowers, 
Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 
Maids of bright Scio ! They came , and the breeze 
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas ; — 
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crown'd, 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 
Jewels flash'd out from her braided hair. 
Like starry dews 'midst the roses there ,• 
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, 
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone ; 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, 
Gleam'd from beneath her transparent veil; 
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue. 
Though clear as a flower which the light looks 

through ; 
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 
For the aspect of woman at times too high, 
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 



fp^ 



( 301 ) 

She look'd on the vine at her father's door, 

Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 

She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own, 

As it greenly waved by the threshold stone ; 

She turn'd — and her mother's gaze brought back 

Ea^h hue of her childhood's faded track. 

Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 

Plow to the dream of her early years ! 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father's 

hall ; 
She goes unto love yet untried and new, 
She parts from love Avhich hath still been true ; 
Mute be the song and the choral strain. 
Till her heart's deep and well-spring is near 

again ! 
She wept on her mother's faithful breast. 
Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 
She wept — yet laid her hand awhile 
In his that waited her dawning smile, 
Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less 
For the gush of nature's tenderness ! 
She lifted her graceful head at last — 
The choking swell of her heart was past ; 
And her lovely thoughts from their cells found 

way 
In ihe sudden flow of a plaintive lay. 

26 



302) 



THE BENDED BOW. 

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, 
There was sent through Britain a bended bow ; 
And a voice was pour'd on the free winds far, 
As the land rose up at the sign of war. 

" Heard you not the battle horn? — 
Reaper ! leave thy golden corn ! 
Leave it for the birds of heaven, 
Swords must flash, and spears be riven I 
Leave it for the winds to shed — 
Arm ! ere Britain's turf grow red ! " 

And the reaper arm'd, like a freeman's son ; 
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on. 

'' Hunter ! leave the mountain chase ! 
Take the falchion from its place ! 
Let the wolf go free to-day, 
Leave him for a nobler prey ! 
Let the deer ungall'd sweep by, — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes are nigh ! " 

And the hunter arm'd ere the chase was done , 
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on. 

" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast ! 
Stay not till the song hath ceased • 
Though the mead be foaming bright. 
Though the fire give ruddy light, 



(303) 

Leave the hearth and leave the hall — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes must fall." 

And the chieftain arm'd, and the horn was blown ; 
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on. 

" Prince ! thy father's deeds are told, 
In the bower and in the hold ! 
Where the goatherd's lay is sung, 
Where the minstrel's harp is strung ! 
Foes are on thy native sea — 
Give our bards a tale of thee ! " 

And the prince came arm'd, like a leader's son ; 
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on. 

" Mother ! stay thou not thy boy ! 
He must leard the battle's joy. 
Sister ! bring the sword and spear, 
Give thy brother words of cheer ! 
Maiden ! bid thy lover part, 
Britain calls the strona: in heart ! " 



'O 



And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on ; 
And the bards made song for a battle woii, 



WOMAN AND FAME. 

Thou hast a charmed cup O Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earthly frame 

Above mortality. 



(304) 

Away ! to me — a woman — ^bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring. 

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine 

Into so proud a wreath ; 
For that resplendent gift of thine. 

Heroes have smiled m death : 
Give me from some kind hand a flower, 
The record of one happy hour ! 

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 

Can bid each life-pulse beat 
As when a trumpet's note hath blown, 

Calling the brave to meet : 
But mine, let mine — a woman's breast. 
By words of home-born love be bless'd. 

A hollow sound is in thy song, 

A mockery in thine eye, 
To the sick heart that doth but long 

For aid, for sympathy — 
For kindly looks to cheer it on, 
For tender accents that are gone. 

Fame, Fame ! thou canst not be the stav 

Unto the drooping reed, 
The cool fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need : 
Where must the lone one turn or flee ^ 
Not unto thee — oh ! not to thee ' 



^305) 



THE PEniTENT'S RETURN. 

My father's house once more, 



'J 



111 its own moonlight beauty ! Yet around, 

Something amidst the dewy calm profound, 

Broods, never mark'd before ! 

Is it the brooding night, 
Is it the shivery creeping on the air, 
That makes the home so tranquil and so fair, 

O'erwhelming to my sight ? 

All solemnized it seems, 
And still, and darken'd in each time-worn hue, 
Since the rich clustering roses met my view, 

As now, by starry gleams. 

And this high elm, where last 
1 stood and linger'd — where my sisters made 
Our mother's bower — 1 deem'd not that it cast 

So far and dark a shade ! 

How spirit-like a tone 
S ghs through yon tree ! My father's place was 

there 
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his 
hair ! 
Now those grey locks are gone ! 
26* 



( 306 ) 

My soul grows faint with fear ; 
Even as if angel-steps had mark'd the sod. 
I tremble where I move — the voice of God 

Is in the foliage here ! 

Is it indeed the night 
That makes my home so awful ? Faithless- 
hearted ! 
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed 

The inborn gladdening light ! 

No outward thing is changed ; 
Only the joy of purity is fled, 
Andj long from nature's melodies estranged, 

Thou hear'st their notes with dread. 

Therefore, the calm abode, 
By the dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade ; 
And, therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God 

Makes thy sick heart afraid ! 

The night-flowers round that door, 
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air ; 
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more 

To pass, and rest thee there. 

And must I turn away ? — 
Hark, hark ! — it is my mother's voice I hear — 
Sadder than once it seem'd — ^yet soft and clear— 

Doth she not seem to pray ? 

My name ! — I caught the sound ! 
Oh ! blessed tone of love — the deep, the mild- 
Mother, my mother ! Now receive thy child, 

Take back the lost and found ' 



307) 



DIRGE OF A CHILD. 

No bitter tears for thee be shed, 
Blossom of being ! seen and gone ! 
With flowers alone we strew thy bed, 

O blest departed One ! 
Whose all of life, a rosy ray, 
Bless'd into dawn and pass'd away. 

Yes ! thou art fled, ere guilt had power 
To stain thy cherub-soul and form, 
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower, 

That never felt a storm ! 
The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, 
All that it knew from birth to death. 

Thou wert so like a form of light. 
That heaven benignly call'd thee hence. 
Ere yet the world could breathe one blight 

O'er thy sweet innocence : 
And thou, that brighter home to bless, 
Art pass'd, with all thy loveliness ! 

Oh ! hadst thou still on earth remain'd, 

Vision of beauty ! fair, as brief ! 

How soon thy brightness had been stam'd 

With passion or with grief! 
Now not a sullying breath can rise> 
To dim thy glory in the skies. 



(308) 

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb ; 
No sculptured image there shall mourn ; 
Ah ! fitter far the vernal bloom 
Such dwelling to adorn. 
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be 
The only emblem meet for thee. 

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, 
Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath j 
Each glowing season shall combine 

Its incense there to breathe : 
And oft, upon the midnight air, 
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. 

And oh ! sometimes in visions blest, 

Sweet spirit ! visit our repose ; 

And bear, from thine own world of rest, 

Some balm for human woes ! 
What form more lovely could be given 
Than thine to messenger of heaven ? 



THE SILENT MULTITUDE. 

A MIGHTY and a mingled throng 

Were gathered in one spot ; 
The dwellers of a thousand homes — 

Yet 'midst them voice was not. 

The soldier and his chief were there — 

The mother and her child : 
The friends, the sisters of one hearth — 

None spoke — ^none moved — none smiled. 



(309) 

There lovers met, between whose lives 

Years had swept darkly by ; 
After that heart-sick hope deferr'd — 

They met — but silently. 

You might have heard the rustling lo'df, 

The breeze's faintest sound, 
The shiver of an insect's wing, 

On that thick-peopled ground. 

Your voice to whispers would have died, 

For the deep quiet's sake ; 
Your tread the softest moss have sought, 

Such stillness not to break. 

What held the countless multitude 
Bound in that spell of peace ? 

How could the ever-sounding life 
Amid so many cease ? 

Was it some pageant of the air — 

Some glory high above, 
That link'd and hush'd those human souls 

In reverential love ? 

Or did some burdening passion's weight 
Hang on their indrawn breath ? 

Awe — the pale awe that freezes words r 
Fear — the strong fear of death ? 

A mightier thing — Death, Death himself 

Lay on each lonely heart ! 
Kindred were there — yet hermits all — 

Thousands, but each apart. 



310) 



THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA. 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance. 
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance ! 
The light of his eye was a joy to see. 
The path of his arrows a storm to flee ! 
But there came a voice from a distant shore : 
He was call'd — he is found 'midst his tribes no 

more ! 
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn, 
But we look for him still — he will yet return ! 
His brother sat with a drooping brow 
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough : 
We roused him — we bade him no longer pine, 
For we heard a step — but the step was thine. 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We look d for the maid of the mournful song — 
Mournful, though sweet — she hath left us long I 
We told her the youth of her love was gone, 
And she went forth to seek him — she pass'd 

alone ; 
We hear not her voice when the woods are stiii. 
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery ^iU. 
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled, 
The winter is white on his lonely head, 
He hath none by his side when the wilds we 

track. 
He hath none when we rest — yet she comes not 

back ! 



ff= 



(311) 

We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine, 
For her breezy step — but the step was thine ! 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We look'd for the chief who hath left the spear 
And the bow of his battles forgotten here ! 
We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament 
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent : 
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry 
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight 

sky !— 
Where are they ? — thou art seeking some distant 

coast — 
O ask of them, stranger ! — send back the lost ! 
Tell tnem we mourn by the dark blue streams, 
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams ! 
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine. 
And to watch for a step — but the step was thine ! 



THE MESSENGER BIRD. 

Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird ! 

Thou art come from the spirits' land : 
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be 
heard. 

And tell of the shadowy band ! 

We know that the bowers are green and fair 
In the light of that summer shore. 

And Ave know that the friends we have lost are 
there. 
They are there — and they weep no more / 



(312) 

A.nd we know they have quench'd their fever'« 
thirst 

From the Fountain of youth ere now, 
For there must the stream in its freshness burst 

Which none may find below ! 

And we know that they will not be lured to earth 
From the land of deathless flowers, 

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth. 
Though their hearts were once with ours : 

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze 

And bent with us the bow, 
And heard the tales of our fathers' days, 

Which are told to others now ! 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have love forget ? 
We call — and they answer not again — 

Do they love — do they love us yet ? 

Doth the warrior think of his brother there, 

And the father of his child ? 
And the chief, of those who were wont to share 

His wandering through the wild ? 

We call them far through the silent night. 
And they speak not from cave or hill ; 

We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright 
But say, do they love there still ? 



:^E3«n 



(313) 



BRING FLOWERS. 

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal 

board, 
To wieath the cup ere the wine is pour'd : 
Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and 

vale : 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale ; 
And the torch of the sunbeam hath waked the 

rose. 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path- 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath I 
He comes with the spoils of nations back, 
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track, 
The turf looks red where he won the day — 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell, 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell ; 
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, 
And the bright world shut from his languid eye. 
They will bear him a thought of the sunny 

hours. 
And the dream of his youth — bring him flowers 

wild flowers ! 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
27 



(314) 

She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth^ 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, 
Her place is now by another's side — 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young 
bride ! 

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 

A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 

For this through its leaves hath the white rose 

burst, 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! 
Though they smile in vain for what once was 

ours, 
They are love's last gift — bring ye flowers, pale 

flowers ! 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 

prayer. 
They are nature's offering, their place is there ! 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
With a voice of promise they come and part ; 
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours. 
They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright 

flowers ! 



THE WATER LILY. 

Oh ! beautiful thou art, 
Thou sculpture-like and stately River-Glueen ! 
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene 

Of a pure heart. 



(315) 

Bright lily of the wave ! 
Rising in fearless grace with every swell, 
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 

Dwelt in thy cell : 

Lifting alike thy head 
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, 
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread 

The waters be. 

What is like thee, fair flower, 
The gentle and the firm ? thus bearing up 
To the blue sky that alabaster cup, 

As to the shower ? 

Oh ! Love is most like thee. 
The love of woman ; quivering to the blast 
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast^ 

'Midst Life's dark sea. 

And Faith — O, is not faith 
Like thee too, Lily, springing into light, 
Still buoyantly above the billows' might. 

Through the storm's breath ? 

Yes, link'd with such high thought, 
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie ! 
Till something there of its own purity 

And peace be wrought : 

Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, 

As from a shrine. 



(316) 



ANGEL VISITS. 

A.RE ye forever to your skies^departed ? 

Oh ! will ye visit this dim world no more ? 
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendor darted 

Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades 
of yore ? 
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot. 
And ye — our faded earth beholds you not ! 

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, 
Man wander 'd from his Paradise away ; 

Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken, 
Came down, high guests ! in many a later day. 

And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, 

'Midst noontide calm, or hush of evening, spoke. 

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending, 
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye, 

That saw your hosts ascending and descending 
On those bright steps between the earth and 
sky : 

Trembling he woke, and bow'd o'er glory's trace. 

And worshipp'd, awe-struck, in that fearlul place. 

By Chebar's brook ye pass'd, such radiance 
wearing 

As mortal vision might but ill endure ; 
Along the stream the living chariot bearing, 

With its high crystal arch, intensely piu:e 1 



-l*. 



(317) 

Ajid the dread rushing of your wings that hour 
Was hke the noise of waters in their power. 



But in the OHve-mount, by night appearing, 
'Midst the dim leaves, your hoHest work was 
done ! 
Whose was the voice that came divinely 
cheering, 
Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his 
Son? 
— Haply of those that, on the moon-lit plains, 
Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains. 

Yet one more task was yours ! your heavenly 
dwelling 
Ye left, and by the unseal'd sepulchral stone, 
[n glorious raiment sat ; the weepers telling. 
That He they sought had triumph 'd, and was 
gone ! 
Nor have ye left us for the brighter shore, 
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. 

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover. 
With gentle promptings and sweet influence 
yet. 
Though the fresh glory of those days be over, 
When, 'midst the palm trees, man your foot- 
steps met ? 
Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, 
When love, by strength, overmasters agony "^ 
27* 



(318; 

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining, 

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave ? 
When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning, 
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? 
Dreams! — but a deeper thought our souls may 

fill- 
One, One is near — a spirit holier still ! 



THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA. 

Oh ! tell me not the woods are fair. 

Now Spring is on her way ; 
Well, well I know how brightly there 

In joy the young leaves play ; 
How sweet on winds of morn or eve 

The violet's breath may be ; — 
Yet ask me, woo me not to leave 

My lone rock by the sea. 



The wild wave's thunder on the shore, 

The curlew's restless cries. 
Unto my watching heart are more 

Than all earth's melodies. 
Come back, my ocean rover ! come ! 

There's but one place for me. 
Till I can greet thy swift sail home— 

My lone rock by the sea ! 



319) 



THE TWO HOMES. 

See ST thou my home ? — 'tis where yon woodH 

are waving, 
In their dark richness, to the summer air ; 
Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks 

laving, 
Leads down the hills a vein of light, — 'tis there ! 

'Midst those green wilds how many a fomit lies 

gleaming, 
Fringed with violet, color'd with the skies ! 
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer 

dreaming, 
Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 

My home ! the spirit of its love is breathing 
In every wind that plays across my track ; 
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing, 
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. 

There am I loved — there pray'd for — there my 

mother 
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful 

eye; 
There my young sisters watch to greet their 

brother 
— Soon their glad footsteps down the patn 

will fly. 



(320) 

There, in sweet strains of kindred musi'^ 
blending, 

All the home-voices meet at day's decline; 

One are those tones, as from one heart as- 
cending, — 

There laughs my home — sad stranger ! — ^wheie 
is thine ? 

Ask'st thou of mine ? — In solemn peace 'tis lying, 
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away 
'Tis where I, too, am loved with love undying, 
And fond hearts wait my step — But where are 
they? 

Ask where the earth's departed have their 

dwelling ! 
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air ! 
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 
My lone heart, that love unchanged is there. 

And what is home, and where, but with the loving i 
Happy thou art, that canst so gaze on thine ! 
My spirit feels, but in its weary roving. 
That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine. 

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother ! 
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene ! 
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I well believe — ^but dark seas roll between. 



(32n 



SADNESS AND MIRTH. 

Yk met at the stately feasts of old, [g^^'^lj 

Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured 
Sadness and mirth ! ye were mingled there 
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air ; ' 
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high, 
Ye mix'd in the gorgeous revelry. 

For there hung, o'er those banquets of yore a 

gloom, 
A thought and a shadow of the tomb ; 
It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone, 
To the rose a coloring not its own. 
To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power — 
Sadness and mirth ! ye had each your dower ! 

Ye met when the triumph went proudly by, 
With the Roman eagles through the sky ! 
I know that even then, in his hour of pride, 
The soul of the mighty within him died ; 
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still, 
Which the music of victory might never fill 1 

Tliou wert there, oh, mirth! sweUing on .he 

shout, 
TiL the temples, like echo-caves, rang out : 
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine. 
All the rich voices in air were thine, [p^rt; 

The incense, the sunshine — but, sadness, thy 
Deepest of all was the victor's heart ! 



(323) 

Ye meet at the bridsu with flower and tear ; 

Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier I 

As tlie gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed, 

Crosses the storm in its path of dread ; 

As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky — 

Sadness and mirth ! so ye come and fly ! 

Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast, 
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest ! 
When the breath of the violet is out in spring, 
When the woods with the wakening of music ring, 
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass, 
Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass. 

When will your parting be, sadness and mirth ? 
Bright stream and dark one ! — oh ! never on earth ! 
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near. 
While death and love walk the same dim sphere, 
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep, 
While the heart of man is a soundless deep ! 

But there smiles a land, oh ! ye troubled pair ! 
Where ye have no part in the summer air. 
Far from the breathings of changeful skies, 
0\^er the seas and the graves it lies 
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done 
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun! 



( 323 ) 



THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. 

Why do I weep ? to leave the vine 

Whose ckisters o'er me bend, — 
The myrtle — yet, oh ! call it mine ! — 

The flowers I loved to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear 

Like shadows o'er me sweep, 
I leave my sunny childhood here, 

Oh, therefore, let me weep ! 

I leave thee, sister ! we have play'd 

Through many a joyous hour, 
Where the silvery green of the olive shad 8 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore, 

In song, in prayer, in sleep, 
Have been as we may be no more — 

Kind sister, let me weep ! 



I leave thee father ! Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet. 
With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre ni tune 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child. 

Lay tones of love so deep, 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled — 

I leave thee ! let me weep ! 



(324) 

Mother ! I leave thee ! on thy breast. 

Pouring out joy and woe, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless, — yet I go ! 
Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain. 

Eyes, that have watch'd my sleep : 
Will earth give love like yours again ? 

Sweet mother! let me weep! 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea, 

For ever and the same ! 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee ; 

Those thunders nought can tame. 

Oh ! many a glorious voice is gone 

From the rich bowers of earth, 
And hush'd is many a lovely one 

Of mournfulness or mirth. 

The Dorian flute that sigh'd of yore 

Along the wave, is still ; 
The harp of Judah peals no more 

On Z ion's awful hill. 

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

That breathed the mystic tone ; 
And the songs at Rome's high triumphs pour'd 

Are with her eagles flown. 



( 325 ) 

And mute the Moorish horn that rang 
O'er stream and mountain free ; 

And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang 
Hath died in Galilee. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep, 
Through many an olden clime, 

Thy billowy anthem ne'er to sleep 
Until the close of time. 

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky, 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In that one harmony. 

Tt fills the noontide's calm profound, 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound, 

Even as first it roU'd. 

Let there be silence, deep and strange, 
Where sceptred cities rose ! 

Thou speakest of One who doth not change- 
So may our hearts repose. 



A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. 

Blessings, O Father, shower ! 
Father of mercies ! round his precious head ! 
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful liDur. 
And the pure visions of his midnight bed. 

Blessings be shed ! 
28 



^326) 

Father ! I pray Thee not 
For earthly treasure to that most beloved, 
Fame, fortune, power ; — oh ! be his spirit proved 
By these, pr by their absence, at Thy will ! 
But let Thy peace be wedded to his lot, 
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill, 

With its dove-pinion still ! 

Let such a sense of Thee, 
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love, 
His bosom guest inalienably be. 

That wheresoe'er he move, 

A heavenly light serene 

Upon his heart and mien 
May sit undimm'd ! a gladness rest his own, 
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown ! 
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams, 

Remember'd faintly, gleams. 
Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown ! 

So let him walk with Thee, 

Made by Thy spirit free ; 
And when thou call'st him from his mortal place, 
To his last hour be still that sweetness given. 
That joyful trust ! and brightly let him part, 
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart, 

Mature to meet in heaven 

His Saviour's face ! 



I 327) 



THE ANTiaUE SEPULCHRE. 

O EVER joyous band 
Of revellers amidst the southern vines ! 
On the pale marble, by some gifted hand, 

Pix'd in undying lines ! 

Thou, with the sculptured bowl, 
And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath. 
And thou, from whose young lip and flute, the soul 

Of music seems to breathe ; 

And ye, luxuriant flowers ! 
Linking the dancers with your graceful ties, 
And cluster'd fruitage, born of sunny hours, 

Under Italian skies : 

Ye, that a thousand springs, 
And leafy summers with their odorous breath. 
May yet outlast, — what do ye there, bright things 

Mantling the place of death ? 

Of sunlight and soft air, 
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green. 
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear ; — 

Why thus, where dust hath been ? 

Is it to show how slight 
The bond that severs festivals and tombs, 
Music and silence, roses and the blight. 

Crowns and sepulchral glooms ? 



( 328 ) 

Or when the father laid 
Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep, 
When the friend visited the cypress shade, 

Flowers o'er the dead to heap ; 

Say if the mourners sought, 
In these rich images of summer mirth, [the ught 
'l^'hese wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the 

Of our last hour on earth ? 

Ye have no voice, no sound. 
Ye flutes and lyres, to tell me what I seek ; 
Silent ye are, light forms with vine leaves crown'd, 

Yet to my soul ye speak. 

Alas ! for those that lay 
Downan the dust without their hope of old ! 
Backward they look'd on life's rich banr[uet-day, 

But all beyond was cold. 

Every sweet wood-note then. 
And through the plane trees every sunbeam's glow, 
And each glad mm'mur from the homes of men, 

Made it more hard to go. 

But we, when life grows dim^ 
When its last melodies float o'er our way. 
Its changeful hues before us faintly swim, 

Its flitting lights decay ; — 

E'en though we bid farewell 
Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees 
Yet may we lift our hearts, in hope to dwell 

'Midst brighter things than these. 



I 329) 

And think of deathless flowers, 
And of bright streams to glorious valleys given, 
And know the while, how little dream of ours 

Can shadow forth of Heaven. 



THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA. 

When the last flush of eve is dying 

On boundless lakes, afar that shine ; 
When winds amidst the palms are sighing, 

And fragrance breathes from every pine : 
When stars through cypress-boughs are gleammg. 

And fireflies wander bright and free, 
Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming, 

My thoughts, wild Cambria ! dwell with thee 

Alone o'er green savannas roving. 

Where some broad stream in silence flows, 
Or through the eternal forests moving, 

One only home my spirit knows! 
Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted ! 

To thee on sleep's light wing I fly ; 
But happier, could the weary hearted 

Look on his own blue hills, and die * 

28* 



(330) 



NO MORE. 

No more ! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone, 

A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell, 
A dying echo of rich music gone, 

Breathe through those words — those murmurs 
of farewell : 

No more ! 

To dwell in peace, with home affections bound, 
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice, 

To feel the spirit of her love around, 
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice — 

No more I 

A dirge-like sound ! to greet the early friend 
Unto the hearth, his place of many days ; 

In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, 
Or join the household laughter by the blaze — 

No more ! 

Through woods that shadow'd our first years to 
rove, 
With all our native music in the air ; 
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, 
And turn, and read our own heart's answei 
there — 

No more ' 



( 331 ) 

Words of despair ! yet earth's, all earth's — the w oo 
Their passion breathes — the desolately deep ! 

That sound in Heaven — oh! image then the flow 
Of gladness in its tones — to part, to weej)^ 

No more ! 

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane, 
To see the beautiful from life depart, 

To wear impatiently a secret chain. 

To waste the untold riches of the heart — 

No more ! 

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to 
yearn 
For human love — and never quench that thirst, 
To pour the soul out, winning no return. 
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed — 

No more ! 

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, 
To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead ; 

To send our troubled spirits through the unseen, 
Intensely questioning for treasures fled — 

No more ! 

Words of triumphant music — bear we on 

The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air ; 

Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done 
To learn in joy ; — to struggle, to despair- 
No more ! 



' 




( 333 ) 




LAST RITES. 




By the mighty minster's bell, 
Tolling with a sudden swell : 
By the colors half-mast high, 
O'er the seas hung mournfully ; 

Know, a prince hath died J 




By the drum's dull muffled sound, 
By the arms that sweep the ground, 
By the volleying muskets' tone. 
Speak ye of a soldier gone 

In his manhood's pride. 




By the chanted psalm that fills 
Reverently the ancient hills, 
Learn, that from his harvests done 
Peasants bear a brother on 
To his last repose. 




By the pall of snowy white 
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright ; 
By the garland on the bier, 
Weep ! a maiden claims thy tear— 
Broken is the rose ! 




Which is the tenderest rite of all ? — 
Buried virgin's coronal. 
Requiem o'er the monarch's head, 
Farewell gun for warrior dead, 

Herdsman's funeral hymn ? 


1 



(333) 

Tells not each of human woe ! 
Each of hope and strength brought low ? 
Number each with holy things, 
If one chastening thought it brings 
Ere life's day grow dim ! 



THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 

Come near ! — ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, 
Look on your brother ; and embrace him now, 

In still and solemn trust ! 
Come near ! — once more let kindred lips be press'd 
On his cold cheek ; then bear him to his rest ! 

Look yet on this young face ! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, 
Leave of its image, even where most it shone. 

Gladdening its hearth and race ? 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart im- 

press'd — 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest ! 

Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings ! — Yesterday, 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, 

And sunshine seem'd to dwell 
Where'er he moved — the welcome and the 

bless'd — 
Now gaze ! and bear the silent imto rest I 



-Jj 



( 334 ) 

Look yet on him whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth ! 
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die ? — [bless'd— 
But not where death has power may love be 
Come near ! and bear ye the beloved to rest ! 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again ? 
The Spring's rich promise hath been given in vain, 

The lovely must depart ! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best ? 
Come near ! and bear the early-call'd to rest ! 

Look on him ! is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase ? — 
Too still and sad the smile upon his face ; 

Yet that, even that must fade ! [guest ! — 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest 
Come near ! and bear the mortal to his rest ! 

His voice of mirth hath ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace, 

At the gay bridal feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast ; 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest ! 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirit's light is quench'd — for him the past 
Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away ! 
All is not here of our beloved and bless'd — 
Lieave ye the sleeper with his God to r(?st ' 



-H 



(335) 



A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. 

Dreamer ! and would'st thou know 
If love goes with us to the viewless bourne ? 
Would'st thou bear hence th' unfathom'd source 
of woe 

In thy heart's lonely urn ? 

What hath it been to thee, 
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast ? 
A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, 

Finding no place of rest : 

A precious odor cast 
On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by ; 
A voice of music utter'd to the blast. 

And winning no reply. 

■ Even were such answer thine — 
Would'st thou be bless'd ? — too sleepless, tec 

profound, 
Are the soul's hidden springs : there is no line 
Their depth of love to sound. 

Do not words faint and fail 
When thou would'st fill them with that ocean'i 

power ? 
As thine own cheek before high thoughts grows 
pale 
In some o'er whelming hour. 



i^ 



(336) 

Doth not thy frail form sink 
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot, 
When thy heart strives, held down by many a link, 

Where thy beloved are not ? 

Is not thy very soul 
Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, 
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control, 

Bows down thy weary head ? 

And would'st thou bear all this — 
The burden and the shadow of thy life — 
To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss 

With earthly feelings' strife ? 

Not thus, not thus — oh, no ! 
Not veil'd and mantled with dim clouds of care, 
That spirit of my soul should with me go 

To breathe celestial air. 

But as the skylark springs 
To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, 
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings. 

So must love mount to heaven ! 

Vainly it shall not strive 
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire ; 
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give, 

As light might wake a lyre. 

And oh ! its blessings there, [head, 

Shower'd like rich balsam forth on some dear 
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, 

A joy of sunlight shed. 



( 337 ) 

Let me, then — let me dream 
That love goes with us to tiie shore unknown ; 
So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam 

In mercy shall be thrown ! 



TROUBADOUR SONG. 

The warrior cross'd the ocean's foam 

For the stormy fields of war } 
The maid was left in a smiling home 

And a sunny land afar. 

His voice was heard where javelin showers 

Pour'd on the steel-clad line ; 
Her step was 'midst the summer flowers, 

Her seat beneath the vine. 

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, 
And the red blood stain'd his crest ; 

While she — the gentlest wind of heaven. 
Might scarcely fan her breast. 

Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by, 
And again he cross'd the seas ; 

But she had died as roses die 
That perish with a breeze. 

As roses die, when the blast is come 
For all things bright and fair — 

There was death within the smiling home — 
How had death found her there ? 
29 



( 338 ) 



EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRL'S 
SCHOOL. 

Hush ! 'tis a holy hour — the quiet room 

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, down on fair young 
heads, 
With all their clust'ring locks, untouch'd by 

care, 
And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in 
prayer ! 

Gaze on — 'tis lovely ! — Childhood's lip and 

cheek. 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of 

thought — 
Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair and 

meek. 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine 

wrought ! 
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 
What death must fashion for eternity ! 

O ! joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest. 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, 

As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest. 
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — 

Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 



( 339 ) 

Though fresh within your broasts th' untroublea 
springs 
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, 
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the 
wings 
Of spirits visiting but youth be spread ; 
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low. 
Is woman's tenderness — how soon her woe ! 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep. 

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's 
hour, 

And sunless riches, from affection's deep. 

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ' 

And to make idols, and to find them clay, 

And to bewail that worship — therefore pray ! 

Her lot is on you — to be found untired, 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 
A true heart of hope, though hope be vain ! 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 

And, oh ! to love through all things — therefore 
pray ; 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time, 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery 
light. 
On through the dark days fading from tiieir 
prime. 
As a sweet dew to keep yoiu: souls from 
blight ; 
Earth will forsake — O ! happy to have given 
Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven. 



(340) 



THE CROSS OP THE SOUTH. 

[n the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, 
Where savannas, in boundless magnificence, 

spread, 
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on 

high, 
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. 

The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fireflies' red 

light. 
With its quick-glancing splendor illumines the 

night ; 
And I read in each tint of the skies and the 

earth, 
How distant my steps from the land of my 

birth. 

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently 

burn. 
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I 

turn. 
Bright Cross of the South ! and beholding thee 

shine. 
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and 

vine. 

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the mam, 
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain, 
And planted their faith in the regions that see 
Its unperishing symbol emblazon'd in thect 



(341) 

How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown, 
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone, 
Hath their spirit been cheer'd by thy light, when 

the deep 
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep ! 

As the vision that rose to the Lord of the 

world, 
When first his bright banner of faith was 

unfurl 'd ; 
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their 

prow 
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert 

thou. 

And to me, as I traversed the world of the west, 
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest, 
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride. 
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide. 

Shine on — my own land is a far-distant spot, 
And the stars of thy spheres can enlighten it not ; 
And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they 

may be 
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on 

thee ! 

But thou to my thoughts art a pure blazhig shrme^ 
A fount of bright hopes and of visions divine ; 
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free, 
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee 
29* 



(342) 



THE CHARMED PICTURE. 

Thine eyes are charm'd — thine earnest eyes— 
' Thou image of the dead ! 
A spell within their sweetness lies, 
A virtue thence is shed. 

Oft in their meek blue light enshrined, 

A blessing seems to be, 
And sometimes there my wayward mind 

A still reproach can see. 

And sometimes Pity — soft and deep, 

And quivering through a tear ; 
Even as if Love in Heaven could weep. 

For Grief left drooping here. 

And oh ! my spirit needs that balm, 

Needs it 'midst fitful mirth ; 
And in the night-hour's haunted calm, 

And by the lonely hearth. 

Look on me thus, when hollow praise 

Hath made the weary pine 
For one true tone of other days, 

One glance of love like thine ! 

Look on me thus, when sudden glee 

Bears my quick heart along, 
On wings that struggle to be free, 

As bursts of skylark song. 



{ 343 ) 

In vain, in vain ! too soon are felt 

The wounds they cannot flee , 
Better in childlike tears to melt, 

Pouring my soul on thee ! 

Sweet face that o'er my childhood shone, 
Whence is thy power of change, 

Thus ever shadowing back my own, 
The rapid and the strange ? 

Whence are they charm'd — those earnest «yes? 

— I know the mystery well ! 
In mine own trembling bosom lies 

The spirit of 'the spell ! 

Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tis born — 

Oh ! change no longer, thou ! 
Forever be the blessing worn 

On thy pure thoughtful brow ! 



THE AGED INDIAN. 

Warriors ! my noon of life is past, 
The brightness of my spirit flown ; 
I crouch before the wintry blast, 
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone ; 
The heroes of my youth are fled, 
They rest among the warlike dead 



( 344 ) 

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave ! 

My kindred-chiefs in days of yore ! 

Ye fill an unremember'd grave, 

Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. 

The records of your wars are gone, 

Your names forgot by all but one. 

Soon shall that one depart from earth, 
To join the brethren of his prime ; 
Then will the memory of your birth 
Sleep with the hidden things of time. 
With him, ye sons of former days ! 
Fades the last glimmering of your praise. 

His eyes, that hail'd your spirits' frame. 
Still kindling in the combat's shock, 
Have seen, since darkness veil'd your frame, 
Sons of the desert and the rock ! 
Another, and another race, 
Rise to the battle and the chase. 

Descendants of the mighty dead ! 
Fearless of heart and firm of hand ! 
O ! let me join their spirits fled, 
O ! send me to their shadowy land. 
Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart, 
He shrinks not from the friendly dart. 

These feet no more can chase the deer, 
The glory of this arm is flown : — 
Why should the feeble linger here. 
When all the pride of life is gone ? 
Warriors ! why still the stroke deny, 
Think ye Ontara fears to die ? 



(345) 

He fear'd not in his flower of days, 
When strong to stem the torrent's force, 
When through the desert's pathless maze 
His way was as an eagle's course ! 
When war was sunshine to his sight, 
And the Avild hurricane, delight ! 

Shall then the warrior tremble now ? 
Now when his envied strength is o'er .' 
Hung on the pine his idle bow, 
His pirogue useless on the shore ? 
When age hath dimm'd his fading eye, 
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die ? 

Sons of the brave ! delay no more. 
The spirits of my kindred call ; 
'Tis but one pang, and all is o'er ! 
Oh ! bid the aged cedar fall ! 
To join the brethren of his prime, 
The mighty of departed time. 



THE YICTOR. 

Mighty ones. Love and Death ! 
Ye are the strong in this world of ours, [flowers, 
Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell 'midst the 
-Which hath the conqueror's wreath ? 

Thou art the victor. Love ! 
Thou art the fearless, the crown'd, tlie free, 
The strength of the battle is given to thee, 

The spirit from above ! 



( 346 ) 

Thou hast look'd on Death, and smil'd ! 
Thou hast home up the reed-like and fragile 

form, 
Tlirough the waves of the fight, through the 
rush of the storm, 
On field, and fiood, and wild ! 

No ! — thou art the victor, Death ! 
Thou comest, and where is that which spoke, 
From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke ? 

— Gone with the fieeting breath ! 

Thou comest— and what is left 
Of all that loved us, to say if aught 
Yet loves — yet answers the burning thought 

Of the spirit lone and reft ? 

Silence is where thou art ! 
Silently there must kindred meet. 
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, 

No bounding of heart to heart ! 

Boast not thy victory, Death ! 
It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power, 
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and fiower, 

That slumber, the snow beneath. 

It is but as a tyrant's reign 
O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still • 
But the fiery thought and the lofty will, 

Are not for him to chain ! 

They shall soar his might above ! 
And thus with the root whence aff*ection springs, 
Though buried, it is not of mortal things— 

Thou art the victor, Love ! 



(347) 



THE DIAL OF FLOWERS. 

'TwAs a lovely thought to mark the hours, 

As they floated m light away, 
By the opening and the folding flowers, 

That laugh to the summer's day. 

Thus had each moment its own rich hue. 

And its graceful cup and bell, 
In whose color'd vase might sleep the dew, 

Like a pearl in an ocean-shell. 

To such sweet signs might the time have flow d 

In a golden current on, 
Ere from the garden, man's first abode. 

The glorious guests were gone. 

So might the days have been brightly told — 
Those days of song and dreams — 

When shepherds gather'd their flocks of old 
By the blue Arcadian streams. 

Sd in those isles of delight, that rest 

Far ofl* in a breezeless main. 
Which many a bark with a weary quest, 

Has sought, but still in vain. 

Yet is not life, in its real flight, 

Mark'd thus — even thus — on earth, 

By the closing of one hope's delight, 
And another's gentle birth ? 



^348) 

Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 
Shutting in turn may leave 

A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 
A charm for the shaded eve. 



THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 

What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells ? 
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! — 
Pale glistering pearls, and rainbow-color'd shells, 
Bright things which gleam unwreck'd of and 
in vain ! — 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! — what wealth 
untold. 
Far down, and shining through their stillness 
lies ! 
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 

Won from ten thousand royal Argosies ! [main ! 
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful 
Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! — thy waves 
have rolPd 
Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old. 

Sea-weeds o'ergrown the halls of revelry. — 
Dash o'er them ocean ! in thy scornful play ' 
Man yields them to decay. 



J 



(349) 

Yet more ! the billows and the depths have 
more ! 
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy 
breast ! 
They hear but now the booming waters roar, 

The battle-thunders will not break their rest.- 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
The place was kept at board and health so 
long ! 
The prayer went up through midnight's breath- 
less gloom. 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal 
song ! [thrown — 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'er- 
But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble 
head, 
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery 
crown ; 
Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the 
dead ! [thee !^ 

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from 
Restore the dead, thou sea ! 



30 



^350) 



TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 

Wherefore and whither bear'st thou up my 
spirit, 
On eagle-wingSj through every plume that 
thrill ? 
It hath no crown of victory to inherit — 
Be still, triumphant harmony ! be still ! 

Thin€ are no sounds for earth, thus proudly 
swelling 

Into rich floods of joy : — it is but pain 
To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling, 

To sink so fast, so heavily again ! 

No sounds for earth ? — ^Yes, to young chieftain 
dying 
On his own battle field at set of sun, 
With his freed country's banner o'er him flymg, 
Well might'st thou speak of fame's high 
guerdon won.. 

No sounds for earth ? — Yes, for the martyr 
leading 

Unto victorious death serenely on, 
For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding, 

Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone. 

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating 
Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain ! 



(351) 

For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous 
greetmg, 
Thou wakest lone thirst — be hush'd, exulting 
strain ! 

Be hush'd, or breathe of grief! — of exile 
yearnings 
Under the willows of the stranger-shore ! 
Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burn- 
ings, 
For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no 
more. 

Breathe of deep love — a lonely vigil keepnig 
Through the night hours, o'er wasted wealth 
to pine ; 
Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves 
heaping. 
In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. 

Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing 
From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky ; 

Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, the 
undying — 
Of joy no more — bewildering harmony ! 



— -t**.*^^™- 



(353) 



NIGHT HYMN AT SEA. 



'J 



Night sinks on the wave. 

Hollow gusts are sighing, 
Sea birds to their cave 

Through the gloom are flying, 
Oh ! should storms come sweeping, 
Thou, in Heaven unsleeping, 
O'er thy children vigil keeping, 
Hear, hear, and save ! 

Stars look o'er the sea, 

Pew, and sad, and shrouded ! 

Faith our light must be. 
When all else is clouded. 

Thou, whose voice came thrilling, 

Wind and billow stilling. 

Speak once more ! our prayer fulfilling- 
Power dwells with Thee ! 



(353) 



SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL 

1— THE SACRED HARP. 

How shall the harp of poesy regain 

That old victorious tone of prophet-years, 
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears. 

And all the hovering shadows of the brain ? 

Dark evil wings took flight before the strain, 
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall, 
Sank on the soul : — Oh ! who may now recall 

The mighty music's consecrated reign ? — 

Spirit of God ! whose glory once o'erhung 
A throne, the Ark's dread cherubim between, 
So let thy presence brood, though now imseen, 

O'er those two powers by whom the harp is 
strung — 

Feeling and Thought ! — till the rekindled chords 

Give the long-buried tone back to immortal 
words ! 



II.— TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 

What household thoughts around thee, as theij 

shrine. 
Cling reverently ! — of anxious looks beguiled. 
My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine, 
Each day were bent ; — her accents, gravely mild 
Breathed out thy lore : whilst I, a dreamy child, 
30* 



(354) 

Wander'd on breeze-like fancies oft away. 
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild; 
Some fresh-discover'd nook for woodland play, 
Some secret nest : — yet would the solemn Word 
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, 

Pall on my waken'd spirit, there to be 
A seed not lost ; — for which, in darker years, 
O book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful tears, 

Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 



III.—REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY 

Under a palm tree, by the green old Nile, 

Lull'd on his mother's breast, the fair Child lies^ 
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile, 

Brooding above the slumber of his eyes. 
While, through the stillness of the burning skies, 

Lo ! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings, 
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise. 

Regal and still as everlasting things ! — 
Vain pomps ! from Him, with that pure flowery 
cheek, 

Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head, 
A new-born Spirit, mighty, and yet meek, 

O'er the whole world like vernal air shall 
spread ! 
And bid all earthly Grandeurs cast the crown, 
Before tlie sufiering and the lowly, down. 



(355) 



>V -PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH 
FLOWERS. 

All. the bright hues from eastern garlands 

glowing, 
Round the young child luxuriantly are spread ; 
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing 
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed, 
Roses, deep-fill'd with rich midsummer's red, 
Circle his hands ; but, in his grave sweet eye. 
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and pro2:)hesy 
Of ruder coronals for that meek head. 
And thus it was ! a diadem of thorn 

Earth gave to Him who mantled her with 

flowers, 
To him who pour'd forth blessings in soft 

showers 
O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn ! 
And we repine, for whom that cup He took, 
O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that. 

forsook ! 



v.— ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST. 

1 MET that image on a mirthful day 

Of youth ; and, sinking with a still'd surprise?, 

The pride of life, before those holy eyes, 
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away, 
Abash'd to mute confession of a sway. 

Awful, though meek; and noAV, that from the 
strings 

Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings 
Have struck forth tones which then awaken'd lay : 



( 356 ) 

Now, that around the deep life of my mind, 
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined. 

Oft does the pale bright vision still float by ; 
But more divinely sweet, and speaking now 
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow, 

Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, 
humanity ! 

VI.— THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLEST. 

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight 

Ye grew, fair children ! hallow'd from that 
hour 

By your Lord's blessing ! surely thence a 
shower 
Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light 
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright, 

Through all the after years, which saw ye move 
Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might, 

The conscious glory of the Saviour's love ' 
And honor 'd be all childhood, for the sake 

Of that high love ! Let reverential care 
Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake, 

And shield its first bloom from unholy air ; 
Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign 
Of claims upon a heritage divine. 



VII.— MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES. 

A CHILD 'midst ancient mountains I have stood, 
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nesi 

On high. The spirit of the solitude 
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast 



/^ 



( 357 ) 

Though then I pray'd not ; but deep thougiits 
have press'd 
Into my being since it breathed that air ; 
Nor coidd I now one moment hve tlie guest 
Of such dread scenes, without the spriiii^s nf 
prayer 
O'erflowing all my soul. No ministers rise 
Like them in pure communion with the skies, 
Vast silent, open unto night and day ; 

So might the o'erburden'd Son of man have 

felt. 
When turning where inviolate stillness dwelt, 
He sought high mountains, there apart to pray. 



VIII.— THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 

Flowers ! when the Saviour's calm benignant 
eye 
Fell on your gentle beauty — when from you 
That heavenly lesson from all hearts he drew, 

Eternal, universal, as the sky — 

Then, in the bosom of your purity, 
A voice He set, as in a lemple shrine. 

That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass 
you by, 
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine. 

And though too oft its low, celestial sounds 

By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown d 

And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste, 
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power 
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hush d 
hour. 

Than yours, ye Lilies ! chosen thus and graced. 



(358) 



IX.— THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 

Ye too, the free and fearless Birds of the air, 

Were charged that hour on missionary wing. 
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear, 

Heaven-guided wanderers with the winds 0/ 
spring ! 
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing ! 

A call us to your echoing woods away 
From worldly cares ; and bid our spirits bring 

Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay. 
So may those blessed vernal strains renew 
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true 

E'en than the first, within th' awaken'd 
mind : 
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life 
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife^ 

But hmigs upon its God, unconsciously resign 'd. 



X.— THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 

He that was dead rose up and spoke — He spoke ! 
Was it of that majestic world unknown ! 
Those words which first the bier's dread silence 

broke. 
Came they with revelation in each tone ? 
Were the far cities of the nations gone. 

The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep, 
For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone. 

Back from their portal summon'd o'er the 
deep ? 



r^ 



( 359 ) 

Be hush'd, my soul ! the veil of darkness lay 
Still drawn : — thy Lord call'd back the voice 

departed, 
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted, 
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way. 
Oh ! take that lesson home in silent faith, 
Put on submissive strength to meet, not question 

death ! 



XI.— THE OLIVE TREE. 

The Palm — the Vine — the Cedar — each hath 

power 
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by, 
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower 
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye. 
But thou, pale Olive ! — in thy branches lie 
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old 
Might e'er enshrine : — I could not hear thee sigh 
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold 
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green, 
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene 
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'd — 
When pale stars look'd upon his fainting head, 
And angels, ministering in silent dread. 
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling 

shade. 



( 360 ) 



XII.— THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung, 
Felt shudderingly at noon : — the land had driven 
A Guest divine back to the gates of Heaven, 
A life, whence all pure founts of healing spjiung, 
All grace, all truth : — and, when to anguish 

wrung, 
From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fl« d. 
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread 
By the great shadow of that death was flung. 
O Saviour ! O Atoner ! thou that fain 
Wouldst make thy temple in each huma,n breast, 
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign, 
Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart, 
Chas d thence by guilt ! — Oh ! turn not thou 

away, 
The bright and morning star, my guide to 

perfect day ! 



XIII.— PLACES OF WORSHIP. 

Spirit ! whose life-sustaining presence fills 
Air, ocean, central depths, by man untried, 
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified 
All place, all time ! The silence of the hills 
Breathes veneration : — founts and choral rills 
Of thee are murmuring : — to its inmost glade 
The living forest with thy whisper thrills, 
And there is holiness on every shade. 
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest 
With dearer consecration those pure fanes, 



(cGl) 

WTiich, sever 'd from all sound of earth's unrest, 
Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains 
Rise heavenward. — ^Ne'er may rock or cave 

possess 
Their claim on human hearts to solemn tender- 
ness. 



XIV.— OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK 

Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone 
In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound, 
Caressingly, about the holy ground ; 
And warbled, with a never-dying tone. 
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone 
Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam 
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream, 
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown. 
And something yet more deep. The air was 

fraught 
With noble memories, whispering many a 

thought 
Of England's fathers ; lofty serene. 
They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled, to 

secure. 
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure, 
Reign'd there, the o'ershadowing spirits of tlie 

scene. 



\zs: 



<r=^ 



(362 



XV.— A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES. 

Blessings be round it still ! that gleaming fane, 
Low in its mountain glen ! old mossy trees 
Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane, 
Aiid oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze, 
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas. 
Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone. 
There meets the voice of psalms ! — yet noJ; 

alone 
For memories lulling to the heart as these, 
1 bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, grey house of 

prayer ! 
But for their sakes who unto thee repair 
From the hill-cabins and the ocean shore. 
Oh ! may the fisher and the mountaineer. 
Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear, 
Within thy lowly walls for evermore ! 



XVI.— LOUISE SCHEPLER. 

A FEARLESS joumcyer o'er the mountain snow 
Wert thou, Louise ! the sun's decaying light, 
Oft, with its latest melancholy glow, 
lledden'd thy steep wild way : the starry nighl 
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height, 
I*iercing some dark ravine : and many a dell 
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well, 
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them 

bright 
Oft in mid storms ; oh ! not with beauty's eye. 



(363) 

Nor the groud glance of genius keenly burning ^ 

No ! pilgrim of unwearying cliarity ! 

Thy spell was love — the mountain deserts 

turning 
To blessed realms, where stream and rock 

rejoice, 
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving 

voice ' 



XVII.— TO THE SAME. 

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind, 
Through the pine forests, by the upland rills. 
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, 
A wild neglected flock ! to seek, and find, 
And meekly win ! there feeding each young mind 
With balms of heavenly eloquence : not thine. 
Daughter of Christ ! but his, whose love divine. 
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined, 
A burning light ! Oh ! beautiful, in truth, 
Upon the mountains are the feet of those 
Who bear his tidings ! From thy morn of youth, 
For this were all thy journeyings, and the close 
Of that long path. Heaven's own bright Sabbath- 
rest, 
Must wait thee, wanderer ! on thy Savioui's 
hveast. 



-jj 



/f™"""^ 



( 2G4 ) 



RJilCORDS OF THE SPRING OE 1834 



I.— A VERNAL THOUGHT. 

FESTAL Spring ! 'midst thy victorious glow, 
Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains. 
And streams, that bound to meet thee from theii 

chains, 
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe 
For human hearts, and in the exulting flow 
Of thy rich sons a melancholy tone, 
Were we of mould all earthly ; we alone 
Sever'd from thy great spell, and doom'd to go 
Farther, still farther, from our sunny time, 
Never to feel the breathings of our prime. 
Never to flower again !— But we, O Spring ! 
Cheer'd by deep spirit-whispers not of earth, 
Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth, 
As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom 

and sing. 



II.— TO THE SKY. 



Far from the rustlings of the pcf-lar boi^gh, 
Which o'er my opening life wild music made, 
Far from the green hills with their heathery glow 
And flashing streams whereby my childhood 
play'd J 



-H 



(365) 

In the dim city, 'midst the sounding flow 

Of restless Hfe, to thee in love 1 turn, 

O thou rich sky ! and from thy splendors learn 

How song-birds come and part, flowers war 9 

and blow. 
With thee all shapes of glory find their home. 
And tixou hast taught me well, majestic dome ! 
By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove 
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest, 
That Nature's God hath left no spot unbless'd 
With founts ' beauty for the eye of love. 



III.— ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS. 

Oh ! judge m thoughtful tenderness of tliose, 
Who, richly dower'd for life, are call'd to die, 
Ere the soul's flame, through storms, hath won 

repose 
In truth's divinest ether, still and high ! 
Let their mind's riches claim a trustful sigh ! 
Deem them but sad sweet fragments of a strain^ 
First notes of some yet struggling harmony, 
By the. strong rush, the crowding joy and pain 
Of many inspirations met, and held 
From its true sphere : — Oh ! soon it might have 

swell'd 
Majestically forth ! — Nor doubt, that He, 
Whoye touch mysterious may on earth dissolve 
ThoFe links of music, elsewhere will e^'olve 
Their grand consummate hymn, from passir>n« 

gusts made free ! 
31* 



(366) 



IV —ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A 
SKY LARK. 

Upward and upward still ! — in pearly light 
The clouds are steep'd ; the vernal spirit sighs 
With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies 
Woo thee, O bird ! to thy celestial height ; 
Bird piercing Heaven with music ! thy free flight 
Hath meaning for all bosoms ; most of all 
For those wherein the rapture and the might 
Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn^ 
For then high place : O heirs of genius ! learn 
From the sky's bird your way ! — No joy may fill 
Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won 
To bless your songs, ye children of the sun ! 
Save by the unswerving flight — ^upward and 
upward still ! 



v.— A THOUGHT OF THE SEA. 

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound. 
Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main ! 
The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound 
Tn my lone being, made thy restless plain 
As the vast shining floor of some dread fane, 
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep ! 
Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep, 
Never to thee did love with silvery chain 
Draw my soul's dream, which through all nature 

sought 
What waves deny ; — some bower of steadfast 

bliss. 



(367) 

A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought, 
As with sweet flowers : — But chasten'd hope fof 

this 
Now turns from earth's green valleys as ficni 

thee, 
To that sole changeless world, where " there is 

no more sea." 



VI.— DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT EVENING 

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain dale, 

Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard, 

Thy swell, thou deep ! when evening calls the 

bird 
A.nd bee to rest ; when summer tints grow pale, 
Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil, 
And peasant steps are hastening to repose, 
And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups 

close 
To the last whisper of the falling gale. 
Then, 'midst the dying of all other sound, 
When the soul hears thy distant voice profound, 
Lone-worshipping, and knows that throng) i the 

night 
'T will worship still, then most its anthem-tone 
Sp(3aks to our being of the Eternal One, 
Who girds tired natuvo with unslumbering might 



(368) 



VII.- THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES. 

O Cambrian river, with slow music gliding 
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin'd towers ; 
Now 'midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding, 
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of 

flowers ; 
Long flow'd the cm-rent of my life's clear hom-s 
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my 

dream, 
Though time and change, and other mightier 

powers, 
Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, 

smooth stream ! 
Art winding still thy sunny meads along, 
Murm'ring to cottage and grey hall thy song. 
Low, sweet, unchanged. My being's tide hath 

pass'd 
Through rocks and storms ,* yet will I not 

complain. 
If thus wrought free and pure from earthly stam, 
Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep 

at last. 



VIII.— ORCHARD BLOSSOMS. 

DoTH thy heart stir within thee at the sight 
Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough ? 
Doth their sweet household smile waft back the 

glow 
Of childhood's morn? — the wondering fresh 

deliglit 
In earth's naw coloring, then all strangely bright. 



( 369 ) 

A joy of fairy land ? — Doth some old nook, 
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book, 
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak 'd blossoms 

"vvhite, 
Shoiver'd o'er the tm-f, and the lone pri-niroso 

knot, 
And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot. 
And the bee's dreamy chime ? — O gentle friend ! 
The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life 

bereaves 
Of vernal gifts — Time hallows what he leaves, 
And will for us dear spring-memories to the end. 



IX.— TO A DISTANT SCENE. 

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, 

far-off glassy dell ? — and dost thou see. 
When southern winds first wake the vernal 

singing, 
The star-gleam of the wood anemone ? 
Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet — the bee 
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell 
To their wild blooms ? and round my beechen tree 
Still, in green softness, doth the moss bank swell ? 
— Oh ! strange illusion by the fond heart wrought, 
Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face ! 
— My being's tide of many-color'd thought 
Hath pass'd from thee, and now, rich, leafy place ! 

1 paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, 
Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow'd by what hath 

been. 



( 370 ) 



X.— A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE 

O VALE and lake, within your mountain-urn 
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep ! 
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness returUj 
Coloring the tender shadows of my sleep 
With light Elysian ; for the hues that steep 
Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float 
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote, 
Isles of the blest ; and in our memory keep 
Their place with holiest harmonies : fair scene, 
Most loved by evening and her dewy star ! 
Oh ! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar 
The perfect music of thy charm serene ! 
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear 
Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, 
and prayer. 



XL— THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES. 

Trees, gracious trees ! how rich a gift ye are, 
Crown of the earth ! to human hearts and eyes ! 
How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, 
Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings 

rise ! 
How the whole picture of a childhood lies 
Oft 'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep ! 
Till gazing through them up the summer skies 
As "hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may 

creep 
And old sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world 
Where memory coils — and io ! at OAce unfurl'd 



ot 



1) 



The past a glowing scroll, before our sight, 
Spreads clear ! wliile gushing from their lo:"«g« 

seal'd urn 
Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting 

prayers return, 
And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy liglit, 



XII.— THE SAME. 

And ye are strong to shelter! all meek things. 
All that need home and covert, love your shade ! 
Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, 
And nun-like violets, by the wind betray'd. 
Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hatli 

play'd. 
With his first primrose wealth : there love hath 

sought 
A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought ; 
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid, 
A refuge for her tears ; and ofttimes there 
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, 
A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and dim ; 
For wheresoe'er your murm'ring tremors thrill 
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still 
Confess'd a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless 

hymn. 



( 372 ) 



■ Xai.— ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN 
CHILDHOOD. 

GENTLE story of the Indian isle ! 

1 loved thee in my lonely childhood well ; 
On the sea shore, when day's last purple smile 
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell 
And dying cadence let a deeper spell 

Unto thine ocean-pictures. 'Midst thy palms 
And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to 

dwell, 
And watch the southern cross through midnight 

calms. 
And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd 
Thy vision of sweet love ; kind, trustful, true, 
Lighting the citron groves — a heavenly guest. 
With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. 
Even then my young heart wept o'er the world's 

power. 
To reach and blight that holiest Eden flower. 



XIV.— A THOUGHT AT SUNSET. 

Still that last look is solemn ! though thy rays, 
O sun ! to-morrow will give back, we know, 
The joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow 
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze 
Tracks thee with love half fearful ; and in days 
When earth too much adorned thee, what a swell 
Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays, 
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, 



r^ 



(373) 

O sun of Greece ! O glorious festal sun ! 

Lost, lost ! — for them thy golden hom's were 

done, 
And darkness lay before them ! Happier far 
Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain'd, 
Not thus for thy last parting unsustain'd, 
Heirs for a purer day, with its unsetting star. 



XV.— IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE. 

Calm scenes of patriarchal life ! — How long a 

power 
Your unworn pastoral images retain 
O'er the true heart, which in its childhood's hour 
Drank their pure freshness deep ! The camels' 

train 
Winding in patience o'er the desert plain — 
The tent, the palm tree, the reposing flock, 
The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock, 
Oh ! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain. 
And in the influence of its touch how bless'd, 
Are these things link'd, in many a thoughtful 

breast, 
To household memories, for all change endear'd ' 
The matin bird, the ripple of a stream 
Beside our native porch — the hearth-light's 

gleam, 
The voices, earliest by the soul rever'd ! 

32 



(374) 



XVI.— ATTRACTION OF THE EAST. 

What secret current of man's nature turns 
Unto the golden east with ceaseless flow ? 
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns, 
The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow ; 
Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and 

slow, 
Still doth the traveller through the desert's wind, 
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know 
Where pass'd the shepherd fathers of mankind. 
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far 
Still points to where our alienated home 
Lay in bright peace ? O thou true eastern star, 
Saviour ! atoning Lord ! where'er we roam. 
Draw still our hearts to thee ; else, else how vain 
Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain. 



XVII.— TO AN AGED FRIEND. 

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard. 
Servant of God ! — thy day is almost done ; 
The charm now lingering in thy look and word 
Is that which hangs about thy setting sun. 
That which the spirit of decay hath won 
Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense 
Of life immortal — progress but begun — 
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, 
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy 
decline : 



-J. 



( 375 ) 

And the loved flowers which round thee smile 

farewell, 
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, 
By the pure spirit touch'd with light divine ; 
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given; 
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven. 



XVIIL— FOLIAGE. 

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive 
The joy of verdure ! — see, the honied lime 
Showers cool green light o'er banks where wild 

flowers weave 
Thick tapestry ; and woodbine tendrils climb 
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. 
The rich deep masses of the sycamore 
Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime, 
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar, 
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each 

gale 
That sweeps the boughs : — the chestnut floweis 

are past, 
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, 
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast 
From every hedge : Oh ! never may we lose, 
Dear friend ! our fresh delight in simplest nature's 

hues ! 



(376) 



XIX.— A PRATER. 

Father in Heaven! from whom the simplest 

flower 
On the high Alps or fiery, desert thrown, 
Draws not sweet odor or young life alone, 
But the deep virtue of an inborn power 
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour, 
With thoughts of Thee ; to strengthen, to infuse 
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues 
That speak thy presence ; oh ! with such a dower 
Grace thou my song ! — the precious gift bestow 
From thy pure Spirit's treasury divine. 
To wake one tear of purifying flow. 
To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine ; 
So shall the life breathed through the lowly 

strain. 
Be as the meek wild flower's — ^if transient, yet 

not vain. 



XX.— PRAYER CONTINUED. 

Far are the wings of intellect astray. 

That strive not. Father ! to thy heavenly seat ; 

They rove, but mount not ; and the tempesti 

beat 
Still on their plumes : — O source of mentai 

day! 
Chase from before my spirit's track the array 
Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care 
In troubled hosts that cross the purer air, 
A.nd veil the opening of the starry way, 



(377) 

Which brightens on to thee ! — Oh ! guide thou 

right 
My t lought's weak pinion, clear mine inward 

sight, 
The eternal springs of beauty to discern, 
"Welling beside thy throne ; unseal mine ear, 
Nature's true oracles in joy to hear : 
Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn. 



XXI.— MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION. 

Yes ! all things tell us of a birthright lost, 
A brightness from our nature pass'd away ! 
Wanderers we seem, that from an alien coast, 
Would turn to where their Father's mansion lay. 
And but by some lone flower, that 'midst decay 
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, 
Revealing dimly, with grey moss o'ergrown. 
The faint-worn impress of its glory's day, 
Can trace their once-free heritage ; though dreams 
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams 
Flash o'er their souls. — But One, oh ! One alone, 
For us the ruin'd fabric may rebuild. 
And bid the wilderness again be fill'd 
With Eden-flowers — One, mighty to atone ! 

32* 



(378) 



RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. 



I— THE RETURN TO POETRY. 

Once more the eternal melodies from far, 
Woo me like songs of home : once more dis- 
cerning 
Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star, 
Above the poet's world serenely burning, 
Thither my soul, fresh-wing'd by love, is turning, 
As o'er the waves the wood bird seeks her nest. 
For those green heights of dewy stillness 

yearning. 
Whence glorious minds o'erlook this earth's 

unrest. 
— Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide 
Through the bright J and ! — that no brief glad- 
ness, found 
In passing bloom, rich odor, or sweet sound, 
May lure my Yootsteps from their aim aside : 
Their true high quest — to seek, if ne'er to gain, 
The iiimost, purest shrine of that august domain. 



(379) 



IJ.— TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS 
" PRIGIONE." 

There are who climb the mounlaiii's heathery 

side, 
Or, in Hle's vernal strength triumphant, urge 
The bark's fleet rushing through the crested 

surge, 
Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride 
Over the green savannas, gleaming wide 
By some vast lake ; yet thus, on foaming sea, 
Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free, 
Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified 
By thy brave suffering. — Thou from its dark cell 
Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, 
Filling the dedicated solitude 
With God; and where His Spirit deigns to dwell, 
Tiiough the worn frame in fetters withering lie, 
There throned in peace divine is liberty ! 



III.— TO THE SAME, RELEASED. 

How flows thy being now ? — like some glad 

hymn. 
One strain of solemn rapture ? — doth thine eye 
Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim. 
O'er the crown'd Alps, that, 'midst the upper sky 
Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy ? 
Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound^ 
Unto those dear parental faces bound, 
Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by 



(380) 

Haunting tny prison-dreams ? — Where'er thou art 
Blessing be shed upon thine inmost heart, 
Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod, 
For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent 
Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent, 
Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God ! 



IV.— ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE. 

'TwAS a bright moment of my life when first, 
O thou pure stream through rocky portals 

flowing ! 
That temple-chamber of thy glory burst 
On my glad sight ! — thy pebbly couch lay 

glowing 
With deep mosaic hues ; and, richly throwing 
O'er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn's vest. 
High bloom'd the heath flowers, and the wild 

wood's crest 
Was touch'd with gold. — Flow ever thus, 

bestowing 
Gifts of delight, sweet stream ! on all who move 
Gently along thy shores ; and oh ! if love, 
— True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow 

fraught — 
Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to 

thee. 
Then full of kindness let thy music be, 
Singing repose to every troubled thought • 



(381) 



v.— ON READING COLERIDGE S EPITAPH. 

Spirit ! so oft in radiant freedom soaring, 
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined, 
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind, 
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring ; 
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring, 
As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs, 
Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring 
Awhile that freshness left in Paradise ; 
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal .' 
What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul 
Prom wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong 

and high. 
And sceptred intellect ! thy goal confess'd 
Was the Redeemer's Cross — thy last bequest 
One lesson breathing thence profound humility ; 



VI.— ON THE DATURA ARBOREA. 

Majestic plant ! such fairy dreams as lie 
Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's 

bell, 
Are not thy train : — those flowers of vase-like 

swell. 
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill'd from 

high, 
And in their monumental purity 
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw 
Visions link'd strangely with that silent awe 
Which broods o'er Sculpture's works. — A meet 

ally 



f 



( 382 ) 

For those heroic forms, the simply grand 

Art thou : and worthy, carved by plastic hand, 

Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine 

In spotless marble ; honoring one, whose train 

Soar'd upon wings of thought that knew no stain 

Free through the starry heavens of truth divine. 



VII.— DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE. 

They float before my soul, the fair designs 
Which I would body forth to Life and Power, 
Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and 

lines 
Portray majestic buildings : — Dome and tower. 
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the 

shower 
Points to th' unchanging stars ; and high arcade 
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made 
For holiest rites : — meanwhile the waning hour 
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o'er- 

wrought, 
I sink : — O friend ! O link'd with each high 

thought 
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain 
All I may grasp ; until thou see'st fulfill'd. 
While time and strength allow, my hope to build 
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane t 



(383) 



VIII.— HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH 
NATURE. 

Ef e'er again my spirit be allow'd 
Converse with nature in her chambers deep, 
Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud, 
She broods o'er new-born waters, as they leap 
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep 
From caves of mystery ; — if I roam once more 
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar, 
And voiceful oaks respond ! — shall I not reap 
A more ennobling joy, a loftier power, 
Than e'er was shed on life's more vernal hour. 
From such communion ? — yes ! I then shall 

know, 
That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought, 
Their long still work of preparation wrought. 
For that more perfect sense of God reveal'd 

below. 



IX.— DREAMS OF THE DEAD. 

Oft in still night-dreams a departed face 
Bends o'er me with sweet earnestness of eye 
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace, 
But all the tender pity that may lie 
On the clear brow of immortality. 
Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that nn'eDf 
Th' unshadow'd moonlight of some far-off sky 
Around it floats transparently serene 
A.S a pure veil of waters. O rich sleep ! 
Thou hast stiiii); spirits in thy regions deep, 



(384) 

Which glorify with reconciling breath, 
Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine 
Beauty's high truth, and how much more divine 
Thy power when link'd in this, with thy stern 
brother — Death ! 



X.— POETRY OF THE PSALMS. 

Nobly thy song, O minstrel ! rush'd to meet 
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast, 
With darkness round him, as a mantle, cast, 
A cherubim to waft his flying seat ; 
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet, 
With trumpet-voice thy spirit call'd aloud. 
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat, 
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. 
But far more gloriously to earth made known 
By that high strain than by the thunder's tone, 
The flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll, 
Jehovah spake, through the inbreathing fire, 
Nature's vast realms forever to inspire 
With the deep worship of a living soul. 



(385) 



TnOUGIITS DURING SICKNESS. 



I.— INTELLECTUAL POWERS 

O Thought ! O Memory ! gems forever heaping 
High m the illmnined chambers of the mind, 
And thoUj divine Imagination ! keeping 
Thy lamp's lone star 'mid shadowy hosty 

enshrined ; 
How in one moment rent and disentwined, 
At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall. 
Your glorious combinations ! — broken all, 
As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind 
Scatter'd to whirling dust ! — Oh, soon un- 

crown'd ! 
Well may your parting swift, your strange 

return, 
Subdue the soul to lowliness profound, 
Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern 
How by meek Faith Heaven's portals must be 

pass'd 
Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast. 



4^386) 



II.— SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT 

Thou art like Night, O Sickness ! deeply stilling 
Within my heart the world's disturbing sound, 
And the dim quiet of my chamber filling 
With low, sweet voices by Life's tumult 

drown'd, 
Thou art like awful Night! — thou gather'st 

round 
The things that are unseen — though close they 

lie, — 
And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, 
Givest their dread presence to our mental eye. 
— Thou art like starry, spiritual Night ! 
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, 
And revelations, which the common light 
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray 
All outward life : — Be welcome then thy rod, 
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God. 



HI— ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL OF 

DEATH. 

Well might thine awful image thus arise 
With that high calm upon thy regal brow, 
And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, 
Unto the glorious Artist ! — Who but thou 
The fleeting forms of beauty can endow 
For Him with permanency ? — who make thos(» 

gleams 
Of brighter life, that color his lone dreams. 
Immortal things ? — Let others trembling bow, 



( 387 ) 

Angel of Death ! before thee. — Not to thosr . 
Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, 
Art thou a fearful shape ! — and oh ! for me, 
How full of welcome would thine aspect shiL> 
Did not the cords of strong affection twine 
So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to tliee 



IV.— REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE. 

O NATURE ! thou didst rear me for thine own 
With thy free singing birds and monntaiw 

brooks ; 
Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted 

nooks, 
With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone ; 
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone 
Drawn from thy many whispering trees an(? 

waves, 
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves, 
And where bright mosses wove thee' a rich 

throne 
'Midst the green hills : — and now that fai 

estranged 
From all sweet sounds and odors of thy breath. 
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged. 
So glows the love of thee, that not for Death 
Seems that pure passion's fervor — but ordain 'd 
To meet on brighter shores thy Majesty unstain'd 



(388j 



v.— FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT. 

Whither, oh ! whither wilt thou wing thy 

way? 
What solemn region first upon thy sight 
Shall break, unveiPd for terror or delight ? 
What hosts, magnificent in dread array ? 
My spirit ! when thy prison-house of clay, 
After long strife is rent ? — fond, fruitless guest ! 
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest 
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play, 
And through their parting leaves, by fits 

reveal'd, 
A glimpse of summer sky : — Nor knows the 

field 
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried. 
—Thou art that bird ! — of what beyond thee 

lies 
Far in the untrack'd, immeasurable skies, 
Knowing but this — that thou shalt find thy 

Guide ! 



VL~FLOWERS. 

"Welcome, O pure and lovely forms, again 

Unto the shadowy stillness of my room ! 

For not alone ye bring a joyous train 

Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom— 

Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom, 

Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, 

Of stars that look down on your folded bells 

Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume 



(389) 

Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove 
Like sudden music ; more than this ye bring — 
Far more ; ye whisper of the all-fostering love 
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove- 
like wing 
Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fever'd breath, 
Whether the couch be that of life or death. 



VII.— RECOVERY. 

Back then, once more to breast the waves of life 
To battle on against the unceasing spray. 
To sink o'er wearied in the stormy strife. 
And rise to strife again ; yet on my way, 
Oh ! Unger still, thou light of better day. 
Born m the hours of loneliness, and you. 
Ye child-like thoughts, the holy and the true, 
Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay. 
The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn 
Baci^ on my soul, a clear bright sense, new-born^ 
Now leave me not ! but as, profoundly pure, 
A blue stream rushes through a darker -lake 
Unchang'd, e'en thus with me your journey 

take. 
Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this lov 

world obscure. 



33 



(390) 



SABBATH SONNET. 

COMPOSED BY MRS. HEMANS A FEW DAYS BEFORE 
HER DEATH. AND DEDICATED TO HER BROTHER. 

How many blessed groups this hour are bending, 

Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their 
way 

Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms 
ascending, 

Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallo w'd 
day ! 

The halls from old heroic ages grey 
Pour their fail- children forth ; and hamlets low, 
With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds 
play 

Sends out their inmates in a happy flow. 
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread 
With them those pathways,— to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound ;— yet, oh, my God ! I bless 
1 hy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd 
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings stilPd 
To one deep calnx of lowliest thankfulness. 



(391) 



A POET'S DYING HYMN. 

Be mute who will, wno can, 
Ifet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice ! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine 
In such a temple as we now behold, 
Rear'd for thy presence ; therefore am I bound 
To worship here, and every where. 

WORDSWOKTH. 

The blue, deep, glorious heavens ! — I lift mine 
eye. 
And bless thee, O my God ! that I have met 
And own'd thine image in the majesty 

Of their calm temple still ! — that never yet 
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight 
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night : 
1 bless thee, O my God ! 

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, 
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, 

Touching death's features with a lovely glance 
Of light serenely, solemnly divine, 

And lending to each holy star a ray 

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid, 

In the eartli's garden — 'midst the mountains old. 
And the low thriliings of the forest shade, 
And the wild sounds of waters uncontroll'd, 
And upon many a desert plain and shore — 
Xo solitude — for there I felt thee more : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



in 



( 393 ) 

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed 
The gift, the vision of the unseaPd eye, 

To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread, 
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie 

Far in man's heart— if I have kept it free 

And pure — a consecration unto thee : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been 
fraught 
With an awakening power — ^if thou hast 
made. 
Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my 
thought, 
And by the swift winds bid them be convey 'd 
To lands of other lays, and there become 
Native as early melodies of home : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, 
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead, 

But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, 
A still small whisper in my song hath led 

One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, 

Or but one hope, one prayer : — for this alone 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have loved — that I have known the love 
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs 

Yet, with a coloring hale from above. 
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, 

Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be. 

Still weaving links for intercourse with thee: 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



(393) 

That by the passion of its deep distress, 

And by the overflowing of its mighty prayer, 

And by the yearning of its tenderness, 

Too full for words upon their stream to bear, 

I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, 

Well-sprmg of love, the unfathom'd, the divine ; 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, 
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, 
or dread. 
Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken. 

Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed ; 
That passing storms have only fann'd the fire, 
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now art thou calling me in every gale, 
Each sound and token of the dying day : 

Thou leav'st me not, though early life grows pale, 
I am not darkly sinking to decay ; 

But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud, 

Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And if this earth, with all its choral streams, 
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, 

And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams. 
Be lovely still in my departing eyes — 

'Tis not that fondly I would linger here, 

But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



(394) 

A-nd that the tender shadowing I behold, 
The tracery veiniug every leaf and flower, , 

Of glories cast in more consummate mould, 11 

No longer vassals to the changeful hour ; 

That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring 

Rich visions of imperishable spring : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Yes ! the young vernal voices in the skies 
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear 

Some heralds of th' eternal melodies. 
The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear ; 

The full of soul, yet passionate no more — 

Lfct me too, joining those pure strains, adore ! 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now aid, sustain me still ! — to thee I come, 
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are ! 

And for the hope of that immortal home. 

And for thy Son, the bright and morning star^ 

The sufferer and the victor-king of death, 

I bJess thee with my glad song's dying breath I 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



THE END 



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